


Just Getting Started

by gregszandles (JeffersonStarship)



Series: Just Getting Started [1]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Eventual Sandle, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Non-Sexual Breathplay, Psychological Torture, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-02-18 04:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 97,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21771394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeffersonStarship/pseuds/gregszandles
Summary: An old case comes back to haunt the team just as Sara is making some big changes in her life. Grissom is in Peru, and Greg is just starting to receive more of Sara's attention when he is kidnapped. Set later in the series, 2013, post season 12. NOW COMPLETE!! (although I'm constantly editing/improving chapters)
Series: Just Getting Started [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1569229
Comments: 26
Kudos: 16





	1. Prologue

_“All this evidence. All these years. You ever think you’ve had enough?” Sara implored, catching Greg’s eyes after gazing around the warehouse at the shelves upon shelves of boxes._

_“Are you kidding? I’m just getting started.” Greg smiled and turned to leave, gesturing for her to follow._

* * *

_Ten years ago_

_Nevada v. Adams and Adams: Witness Testimonies, Day One_

“Please state your full name and profession.”

Sara cleared her throat, “Sara Sidle. I’m a Crime Scene Investigator.”

“Thank you, Miss Sidle.” The prosecutor for the state, Nathan Phelps, paced the short span of floor between the witness stand and the jurors’ seats. Sara suspected that ‘Dramatic Pauses 101’ was a class prerequisite to becoming a lawyer. Nathan was certainly talented at them, both inside and outside of the courtroom.

“And now, can you tell me how you came to know to the defendants?” Phelps prompted.

“I was the lead investigator in the Thomas O’Bryan murder case. The defendants were some of the first people we questioned regarding his death. Several of O’Bryan’s friends named them as potential suspects.”

“Okay. What was your first impression of the O’Bryan case.”

“August twenty-first of this year, my assignment when I arrived on shift was to investigate a presumed suicide at twelve-thirteen Fremont Street. The house was neat and orderly, and at first glance nothing was out of place. The bathroom was where the victim was found." It was Sara’s turn to pause. She always hated describing a crime scene in a trial.

“In what position was Mr. O’Bryan found, both when he was first discovered by his friend and when you arrived on the scene?” the prosecutor continued gently. He knew this part was hard for her.

“Mr. O’Bryan was originally found by his friend around three days since he was last heard from. He was hanging from the showerhead—the hosing had fashioned a noose around his neck. His friend had cut him down and attempted to resuscitate him, but Thomas O’Bryan had already been dead for six hours. When _I_ arrived on the scene, O’Bryan’s body was lying face-up on the tile just outside of the shower.”

“What was the condition of his body?”

Narrowing her eyes slightly but somehow able to stop herself from saying ‘ _Dead?_ ’ sarcastically because the guy was asking the most detailed, difficult questions, Sara paused to contemplate the best way of translating what she had seen into words. She never rehearsed before trials, although she knew she should. She had to stop herself from rolling her eyes when she spotted Greg standing in the back of the room waiting for his own turn on the witness stand. He grinned, gave her a thumbs up, and mouthed ‘ _you’re doing awesome’_.

Barely missing a beat, Sara turned back to Phelps. “He was naked except for his underwear. His skin was almost completely covered by cuts, burns, and bruises. Several different lines and scrapes around his neck indicated multiple strangling and garroting incidents. Some of his injuries showed signs of beginning to heal, but others appeared fresher. As Doctor Robbins already testified, O’Bryan’s body displayed all the classic signs that he died from asphyxiation: blue skin pigment, petechial hemorrhaging of the vessels in his eyes and face, and completely dilated pupils.”

“In your opinion, Miss Sidle, was this a death that resulted from a suicide?”

“Absolutely not. Furthermore, the bathroom is not where this crime took place. The lack of blood and other fluids on the scene indicated to us that he died somewhere else.”

“Did you eventually find the location that you believe Thomas O’Bryan was kept and killed?”

“Yes. The girls had a type of dungeon, or chamber set up in their basement. In that room, we found O’Bryan’s DNA in abundance—along with ropes and chains used to bind him and several other torture implements.”

Phelps glanced to the jury. “That sounds like a literal hell.”

Sara nodded. “It was Thomas O’Bryan’s hell, for about seventy-two hours.”


	2. About Time

_My soundtrack: “Strange and Beautiful (I’ll Put a Spell on You)” by Aqualung_

* * *

_Present day (2013)_

Sara Sidle was not okay. She doubted her job, her decisions, and herself. She doubted her marriage. No matter what case she was working at the Las Vegas Crime Lab, she found a way to take it personally and effect her work. She felt herself slipping down into that murky abyss she visited too often. Helpless to slow her descent, all she could do was hold on tight and hope this time wasn’t as painful as the last.

Most of Sara’s friends and coworkers believed her when she told them she was okay. Even if they questioned her they dared not do so aloud. Most of Sara’s friends and coworkers gave her as much space as possible because nobody knew when she might snap.

Most, but not Greg. Greg saw right through her charades; detected her mechanical movements. He too said nothing but watched carefully. More than before Sara caught his eyes on her and often caught a fleeting glimpse of worry before he made a goofy face or winked at her. When they partnered on cases Greg remained closer to her, choosing not to split up while processing scenes and interrogating suspects.

Greg didn’t give her as much space as the others. He admired her too much; had gotten to know her too well over the years to allow her to be alone for long. It was something they had in common: the need for companionship and support without the capacity to request it.

After shift one morning, Greg and Sara met at one of their favorite diners, Frank’s, for breakfast. They had invited the rest of the team, but everyone either had commitments or were too exhausted to not head straight home. Greg and Sara were exhausted as well, but the idea of heading to their homes and facing the silence that waited there was even less appealing than the fatigue they felt.

Together they had worked a triple homicide that night. Three children, and their own father was the main suspect at this point. The way they died was particularly brutal, the case was still unsolved, and it involved kids: all of the ingredients for a sleepless day for the investigators.

As they conversed between mouthfuls of food, Sara stuck strictly to work-talk and Greg followed her lead. Despite the dark content of the case, she seemed to be in good spirits; almost cheerful, and the last thing he wanted to do was mention the wrong thing and bring her down.

A particularly touchy subject lately was Gil Grissom. They may have been married, but Sara never felt more distant from her former mentor. She loathed the sensation of drifting apart after a relationship so passionate, so _fierce_ , that it consumed her. She hated that she forgot how to just be Sara, not ‘Mrs. Grissom’.

After breakfast the two walked back to the parking garage. Meandered, truly, because what should have been a three-minute walk easily turned into ten. He walked Sara to her car, delaying the inevitable trip to his quiet apartment and his lonely bed. Their conversation faded and a period of silence followed as Sara leaned against her car, seemingly deep in thought.

Greg stood waiting, hands in pockets, for what he had no idea. She was worrying him. Sara looked like she was contemplating giving up, and that scared Greg because if _Sara_ couldn’t do this then how on earth was he supposed to?

After more silence than Greg could bear, he spoke her name softly.

She glanced up at him. “Yes?”

“I’ll see you tonight, then?” He suspected she wanted to say something and wanted more than anything to know what it was. Even if all she needed to do was vent about her marriage, about the job, about life—he would have gladly listened to it all if it meant taking some of the weight from her shoulders. However, Greg sensed that Sara was nearing a break-down and if pushed, she was likely to shut down even more. So he waited.

“Yeah, you will,” Sara responded with a grateful but guarded smile.

Another hesitation. Her answer had given him faith that she would be okay at least for the day. He watched patiently as she thought.

“This has been fun.”

Any disappointment that may have visible in his expression he quickly covered with a small, lopsided grin. “It has.”

She wrung her hands, stared at the ground. “Do you maybe want to—” but she was cut off by her cellphone receiving a call. The ringtone was Mozart’s _Symphony No. 50_. She removed the device from her pocket, glanced at the screen, then looked up at Greg and smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, I have to get this. See you at work.”

Sara gave a quick, parting wave and got into her car, pressed a button on the phone to answer it, then drove away. Greg waved back, though she was too preoccupied with her call to notice. Scuffing his shoes on the cement in frustration he turned and headed to where his own car was parked.

* * *

After arriving at her apartment Sara tossed and turned in her bed. As usual she couldn’t calm the storm of thoughts racing through her mind. What she and Grissom had, had always been rocky. When it was good, she wouldn’t trade it for the world. However, the good times lately were out shadowed greatly by his absence; both physical and emotional. In fact, Grissom only called her this morning to tell her he was leading a symposium in Argentina on the behavior and survival of the Brazilian wandering spider and wouldn’t be able to contact her for a few more days.

She had always liked Greg. Even back when he flirted incessantly with her, his companionshipwas something to be valued. He cared greatly for his friends and was loyal to a tee. However when it came to romance Greg was younger than the men she normally dated—when she had time to date, that was—and his immaturity, whether it was mostly a front or not, shone a bit too brightly for her tastes.

When exactly Sara’s feelings toward him became more she could not say, but throughout the years she noticed a change in Greg. Time spent in the field, his experiences; _something_ had caused him to mature quickly. He still flirted and he still cracked jokes, but he no longer did so at every opportunity. It seemed he learned to censor himself; even his hair had become censored, and behind every laugh and every jest his eyes were serious.

Recently Sara found herself attracted to Greg. The attraction was not any specific type, just a bunch of fragments of his movements, his everyday actions, and the words he spoke to her, all coming together to a near-perfect mixture of playful, rugged, and adorable. And although this draw was not solely of any particular nature, the man _had_ aged quite well physically.

Yet guilt tugged at her every time she thought about Greg. Gil most likely had no idea, and Sara still cared for him greatly.

Finally Sara resigned the idea of sleep completely. With a heavy sigh she turned on the bedside table lamp and picked up a book.

* * *

A few days later, the two solved the double homicide case. Although the victims could not be returned to their loved ones, Sara could at least rest easy knowing that the murderer was no longer a danger to anyone else.

She invited Greg to her place to celebrate and he agreed. This wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for them since they often hung out at each others’ places throughout the years. Sometimes they went to her place, sometimes to his, and often they went to diners, nightclubs, and bars together. She disguised her need for human conversation and contact under the facade of having accidentally accumulated too much microwave popcorn that would expire soon. She also had free OnDemand credits because she was such a loyal customer.

They were halfway through a delightfully dreadful horror movie about mutant hedgehogs that grew to substantial sizes and acquired a taste for human flesh. Each CSI sat on opposite ends of the sofa, sharing a large bowl of popcorn which sat on the cushion between them. It had alreadybeen refilled once. Two mostly empty glasses of Merlot sat in front of them—also their second. Sara sat with her legs folded underneath her, feeling quitecozy thanks to the strong red wine and the pajamas she’d changed into.

Still in the jeans and button-up shirt he wore to work, Greg leaned back with his long legs propped up on the ottoman. He appeared tired; half-lidded eyes straining to stay open and learn how the movie ends.

“This is why I’m a vegetarian,” Sara commented absently, not looking away from the screen.

Greg exhaled sharply and raised an eyebrow. “This plot is highly improbable. Besides, have you ever seen _Attack of the Killer Tomatoes_?”

Sara grinned at him, “You mock me, but wait until the hedgehogs mutate. They’ll be less likely to eat _me_ than you.”

He laughed and rubbed a hand across his face at her logic. Their eyes met fleetingly, Sara suddenly looked very serious, and Greg cleared his throat. “Well, uh…who eats hedgehogs, anyway? It sounds...painful.”

Realizing they both stopped reaching for popcorn more than five minutes ago, Sara moved the bowl to the coffee table. She took another long sip of her wine and found herself shifting over to where the popcorn had been: into the center of the sofa, and much nearer to Greg.

If he minded, he said nothing. His eyes only darted to her briefly before returning to the television. After a moment, she moved even closer to him, leaned over, and laid her head onto his shoulder. She felt Greg tense ever-so-slightly beneath her, and quickly lifted her head, searching his eyes for any sign she should back off.

It had been some time since she drank, and coupled with the deficiency of sleep, the wine was hitting her harder than it normally would have. Her thoughts kept drifting to what Grissom would think, but when Sara saw the look in Greg’s eyes it was difficult to ponder anything else. There was conflict there, but more prominent was the need and desire.

Sara leaned even closer to Greg, and he closed his eyes before they both quickly closed the gap between them. Their lips met, tentatively at first, but the kiss swiftly became more enthusiastic as they both realized that the other was still a willing participant.

Her right hand traveled to the side of Greg’s face, lightly resting there. His own hand moved to rest lightly on her forearm, then he began to trail small kisses from her lips to her cheek, down to her jawline and finally to her neck, where he lingered and nuzzled her there.

In this moment, it felt as if this kind of contact was nothing new to them.

Goosebumps covered her flesh as Sara leaned her head to the side to give him better access, and her hand drifted down the back of his neck to his shoulder. Greg nibbled lightly across her throat. She uncontrollably dug her fingertips into his thin shirt, leaving shallow red scratches on the skin below. He moaned softly against her.

Sara’s house phone began to ring, and she tried ignoring it but when the voicemail picked up it was impossible.

“ _I_ _t’s Gil. Give me a call when you get_ _in_ _, okay? We haven’t talked—_ really _talked—in a while and I…I miss you._ ”

Sara jerked her hands away from Greg and he backed off and stood up. He put his head in his hands and growled exasperatedly once the machine beeped, signaling that Grissom had hung up.

“What are we doing, Sara?”

“I’m so sorry,” was all she could think to say.

“Don’t…be sorry.” Greg paced the living room, running a hand through his hair anxiously. Finally he changed directions and headed to the front door, muttering “I should go.”

Sara jumped up. “Greg, wait! Please don’t go.”

“And why shouldn’t I go?” he asked, although he did stop in his tracks, hand posed to turn the doorknob.

When he heard her approaching him Greg turned to face her. His face clearly displayed his emotional turmoil. Brows furrowed; lips pressed together tightly. His normally soft brown eyes were narrow and unreadable. She wondered what he saw in her own expression.

She wanted desperately to fix this, to find the right words to restore the comfort they felt around each other only minutes ago. But words failed her so she sighed and simply held up her hands with a defeated shrug.

Without warning Greg closed the small space between them and grabbed both of her hands in his own, squeezing them tightly. “You know that I would never want to get in between you guys but it just feels like now or never. If I don’t say this now, I don’t think I’ll ever have the courage to—”

“Greg don’t—” she tried to interject.

“Please, don’t interrupt me. I’m going to say this, then I’ll leave. Sara, I love you. I’m pretty sure I’ve loved you since the first time you walked into my DNA lab. I know how cliche that sounds but it’s true. How I feel about you, Sara...” He seemed to run out of steam there even though there was so much more to say. He stared her down, searching for an answer; for any reaction at all.

Now Sara felt angry, and she had only a vague understanding of why. “You tell me this now?” she questioned, and she knew the wine was speaking for her. She pulled her hands from his and now it was her turn to run a hand through her hair.

Greg scoffed, growing defensive at Sara’s outburst. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it was the making out and groping that gave me the impression it might be the right time?”

Sara frowned. She turned and paced once across the entryway, stopping in front of him once more. “We weren’t…groping. And I’m happily married,” she held up her ring hand as if this proved her satisfaction in her relationship with Grissom.

“Are you, though?” he countered without pause.

Her mouth dropped open wide in disbelief and she pointed to the door. “You need to leave.”

He threw his hands up in resignation. “Fine. I’m gone.”

After slamming the door shut behind him, Sara leaned against it. She was suddenly short of breath and she fought hard to keep the tears at bay. What just happened? Did she just lose one of her best friends?

* * *

Just after leaving, Greg seriously considered going back and knocking on her door but had no idea what he would say.

_What would I tell her? ‘Sara, I lied. I didn’t mean any of it.’_

But he was over being _that_ guy; the one that bottled his emotions up and said what people wanted to hear. At least when it came to Sara, that was. The internal monologue swirled in his head. He realized he’d just run a stop sign when a horn honked. He drove the next few blocks glancing around nervously, looking for but never seeing those red and blues light up. Greg knew he should not even be driving right now—he was too distracted and perhaps a bit tipsy from the merlot.

Nothing he could tell Sara would reverse the damage that he inflicted today. Considering how charged both of their emotions were, even if Greg thought things could be fixed now was not the time to try. He would leave it be for now; give them both some time to cool down. He relieved at least that burden from his shoulders, and for what happened next, well…’ _d_ _et er aldri så galt at det ikke er godt for noe_ ’ as his Papa Olaf would say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close to the action! The Norwegian phrase at the end translates to 'it’s never so bad that it’s not good for anything' --sort of a bleak way of saying that every cloud has a silver lining.
> 
> *Edited chapter on 10/4/20


	3. Bronx Accents and Bad Decisions

_My soundtrack: “Come With Me Now” by Kongos, “Starting Over” by The Crystal Method_

* * *

Greg trudged into the crime lab for his shift after spending an agonizing, sleepless day at his apartment. As he steered his tired body toward the break room for a cup of coffee, fellow CSI Nick Stokes shouted his name from down the hall. He jogged over, moving into position at Greg’s side and matching his pace.

“So, what happened this morning?” he asked eagerly.

Greg looked sharply at him. Sure, gossip traveled fast at the lab, but he didn’t think there was any reason that Nick should know that something transpired between he and Sara. “What...what do you mean?”

Nick leaned closer and lowered his voice ever so slightly. “Sara called in.”

‘ _Interesting,_ ’ Greg thought to himself, but said aloud: “Oh. Is she all right?”

“I was hoping you’d tell _me_ that, man. D.B. said she’s sick, but when was the last time you remember Sara letting a little bug keep her from coming in? I think that’s the third sign of the apocalypse.” Nick held open the break room door for his friend and went on as Greg made a bee-line for the coffee maker. “I know that you two were talking last night about hanging out after shift, so I thought maybe you knew why she isn’t coming in.”

After taking a long swallow of coffee, wincing as it burned his mouth and throat on the way down, Greg shrugged. “We watched a movie at her place and then I went home. We were both pretty worn out.”

“Yeah, you guys have both been catching tough ones lately. Didn’t you solve that triple last night?”

“The kids? Yeah. The D.A. finally filed charges against daddy dearest. It’s a solid case. He’d need a miracle to dodge the needle.”

“Oh. Good.” Nick paused, watching Greg closely as he downed the rest of his coffee. “You don’t look too good. You’re not catching whatever Sara has, are you?”

“I doubt it. Just didn’t sleep well.”

Greg poured himself a refill and the two headed in the direction of D.B.’s office to find out if they had any new assignments. Nick didn’t ask any more questions and Greg’s mind wandered as they walked.

Sara was one of his best friends. When he first trained to go out in the field, he became her shadow. She was an impressive mentor and an even better comrade. The woman was also tough as nails and Greg respected her to no end. He had always wanted to date her, but learned very early that both her heart and mind were elsewhere. When she married Grissom he was elated for the two but couldn’t help the pestering voice in the back of his head: ‘ _it could have been you_ ’.

It had been months since Greg was with a woman. Kissing Sara that morning felt right, and not only because she was a long-time crush and he was sex-starved. Their lips fit together like puzzle pieces and the sensation sent him soaring into the stars. The high from their kiss, from the charge ostensibly sparking between them,had given him the courage to speak his mind but he regretted that now. Why would he believe that after all these years his feelings might finally be requited? Sara had probably called in so she wouldn’t yet have to deal with the fallout from her own bad decision. He knew that he’d been too blunt, too pushy, and hoped their friendship wouldn’t pay the price.

When the oddly quiet shift finally dragged to an end, Greg was not feeling up to eating or sleeping or tending to any of his other ‘responsibilities’. He most certainly didn’t want to go home to his thoughts and his empty apartment. He exited the lab and set off on foot, not into the parking garage but two blocks in the opposite direction toward Jack’s Tavern. Jack’s was a small diner and bar that was open 24/7 and in close enough proximity to the lab to be convenient as a break or after-work hangout. If the gang made plans, those plans usually involved either Jack’s or Frank’s—whichever was less busy.

He pulled his phone from his pocket as he walked, pulling up the contact he wanted. His thumb hovered momentarily over the ‘call’ button before he took a deep breath and pressed it. Sara’s phone rang several times then went to voicemail, and Greg sighed again. He truly despised leaving messages. His goal was always ‘short and sweet, nothing extra’ but this was easier said than done. More often than not, he would take too long and get cut off before he could finish.

“ _This is Sidle. Leave a message. If it’s important, I’ll get back to you._ ”

Greg smirked. He wondered how many messages Sara actually deemed important.

_**beep** _

“Hey Sara, it’s me. Greg. Which you probably know already since there’s this crazy thing called ‘caller ID’ on like, every phone these days. Gotta love technological advancement, right?”

_Y_ _ou’re rambling._

He hesitated. Having arrived at the diner he leaned against the exterior of the building and kicked idly at some pebbles on the sidewalk.

“Look, if you’re sick I’m sure you’re resting. Maybe you’re throwing up in the toilet as I speak. But if you _are_ feeling alright, I’m done at work and I’ll be at Jack’s for a while. I know neither of us have had the easiest week, emotions are running high, and I want to tell you that I’m really, really sorry. I want to tell you in person, over coffee. Or beer. I haven’t decided which yet.”

_Rambling._

Greg rolled his eyes at himself. “If you still feel sick, I can bring you some noodle soup, no chicken, maybe some toast, and…it doesn’t have to _mean_ anything. Just a couple of friends hanging at a bar after a tough week—” He was trying to wrap up his message but Sara’s voicemail beat him to it, hanging up on him with another beep.

With another sigh Greg slipped the phone back into his jeans pocket and entered the tavern. Still dimly lit despite the bright morning sun filtering through the windows, the place was mostly deserted at this hour. Tourists would still be in their hotel rooms, hungover, and locals would just be arriving at their jobs. There were a couple of tables occupied by older breakfast diners, but the bar itself was empty before Greg slid onto a stool.

He knew the bartender—who also owned the business—from the times he had been there before. William Harris was a bald, gruff middle-aged man that looked older than he really was thanks to too many hours spent in the desert sun. He always wore faded jeans with a black wife-beater that displayed his tan, muscular arms decorated with sleeves of tattoo ink. All that was missing were the chaps.

“Another one of those nights?” Harris greeted Greg, automatically pouring a pint of a local pale ale and sliding it to him. When Greg only stared at it, the man chuckled. “I figured since you took a seat at the bar…”

“No, this is great.” Greg took a sip of the beer. He had to give it to Harris: it _did_ hit the spot. “Thanks.”

“’Welcome. Just you today?”

“Seems so,” he replied. Greg didn’t feel much like conversing and hoped that Sara would show up soon; he didn’t plan to stay long if she didn’t. Harris got the point and headed to the other end of the bar, where he stood wiping down glasses and making a call on the telephone.

Greg zoned out as he enjoyed his beer and picked up snippets of the activity around him: Bon Jovi’s ‘ _Dead or Alive_ ’ floated faintly from a corner jukebox before transitioning into Bad Company’s creatively titled, self-promoting hit. Chatter increased as the breakfast crowd transitioned into a more awake, noisier brunch crowd. One couple discussed their weekend plans; yet another argued about the extra hours she had been pulling at work. A group of female friends ranted about their significant others.

Sometimes, he wondered what a ‘regular’ life would be like. Eight-hour workdays, normal mealtimes, and a sleep schedule; the sleep didn’t even need to be at night, but any sleep at all would be nice. Sure, it was all a well-known part of working third shift for a crime lab in Las Vegas, the city that never sleeps. When he’d traded out his cozy lab for a job in the field, he’d gained more action and adventure but lost his social life. But he wouldn’t trade it for anything now that more of his time was spent with Sara.

As he took a long swallow of his second beer, Greg’s intuition told him he was no longer alone at the bar. Normally his senses were sharper but he was physically and emotionally exhausted and not quite up to par. He glanced quickly to his right, hoping Sara had finally joined him, and noticed that a young woman had taken the bar stool directly next to him. She was squinting at the drink menu scribbled across the chalkboard behind the bar.

Let down because it wasn’t Sara and not exactly wanting company that wasn’t hers, Greg was tempted to relocate to the other end of the bar. Something stopped him, however. The girl was pretty: wavy blonde hair that nearly reached her lower back, full lips, sapphire eyes, impeccable makeup, and flashy jewelry. Her looks weren’t the only thing that kept Greg glued to his seat and unable to take his eyes off of her, however. There was something familiar about her. He couldn’t place it, but he knew that he had seen her before, perhaps long ago.

Harris wandered over and the blonde ordered a gin and tonic. As he retrieved ice and poured the beverage, the woman turned to Greg and smiled flirtatiously. “It’s a bit early for beer, isn’t it?”

She had a faint New York accent, possibly Bronx, and Greg absently wondered what might have brought her all the way to Vegas.

“And I suppose it’s never too early for gin?” he responded good-naturedly, unable to resist returning her smile.

She laughed as the bartender placed her drink in front of her then took the cocktail straw between her lips. She did not break eye contact with Greg as she tongued the straw seductively. “You look lonely.”

Greg lifted his eyebrows. “Do I? And what does lonely look like?”

She gestured in front of them at the mirrored backdrop behind the bar, and he looked into it.

“I’m Amber.”

He turned away from his reflection and accepted her hand. “Greg. Have we met before?”

“I think I would remember that,” she replied, eyes twinkling.

The two began to chat over their drinks. Amber was remarkably easy to talk to. Their conversation remained light, and as time passed he found her increasingly attractive.

Greg was in no way a regular drinker, not anymore, and he felt the beers hitting him harder than he expected. He laughed a lot, more than he had in a while, and soon found himself literally on the edge of his seat, leaning as close to Amber as possible without falling off. He enjoyed watching her lips as she talked; her agile hands as she twirled strands of golden hair between her fingers.

The time went by in a flash, and Greg had a total of four light beers. He’d intended to cut himself off after the third, but having glanced away he had looked back to find a fresh beer in its place. He was definitely a bit tipsy as he polished off his last drink. In fact, he had been well-oiled at the end of his second beer, and now he was having the time of his life.

Somehow he missed the hushed whispers and furtive glances between Amber and the bartender.

Finally, Greg glanced at the clock on his cellphone. It was already close to noon. “Oh wow, I gotta get goin’,” he slurred, sliding off of the stool clumsily. A wave of nausea hit him hard once on his feet and he gripped the edge of the bar as the world spun around him.

Amber stood up next to Greg, sober and composed despite having much stronger drinks than him. “Whoa there, slugger. You’re not thinking of driving, are you?” She grabbed his arm and he had to lean on her to remain standing.

“What? No, I’m just—I’m gonna catch a cab.” He squinted in the direction of the exit. The sunlight glaring through the glass door caused him to flinch and hold up a hand to block his eyes.

‘ _You shouldn’t need a cab._ _Something’s wrong…’_ a voice warned from somewhere in his mind. He wanted to grasp the idea, hold onto it and digest it because he knew it held truth, but it was swept from his reach by a cyclone of a million other thoughts. Thinking, let alone concentrating on one thing, had become hopeless.

Amber smiled, exchanging another glance with Harris. “Okay then. Let us help you outside.”

“What do I owe you?” Greg asked Harris, struggling to pull his wallet from his pocket.

“It’s on me,” Amber answered almost impatiently, turning him away from the bar.

After one last check on his other customers, Harris rounded the counter and hooked a forearm under Greg’s shoulder, supporting him on one side. With Harris on one side and Amber on the other the trio made their way outside, receiving a few mildly interested looks from other customers. Those that had seen Greg at the bar assumed he’d had too much; after all, this was Vegas, pre-noon or not it wasn’t an uncommon sight.

They were essentially dragging him and even though his mind was foggy, enough instinct remained to try shrugging away from his two ‘helpers’. However both Amber and Harris only gripped him tighter and moved more quickly toward the exit.

The light outside nearly blinded Greg and by the time he comprehended they were heading in the wrong direction, the three were already around the side of the building. They were steering him toward a late model Ford van that was pulled up alongside the building.

“Wait, where are we—” Greg’s words cut off when a hand suddenly grasped the back of his head and his face was slammed into the side of the van. Blood immediately began pouring from his nose and somewhere on his head and his already blurry vision flickered. His legs buckled but Amber and Harris kept him on his feet.

Harris reached out and slid the van’s door open. Greg knew they were about to force him into it and he began to struggle. He threw a punch but the hit had the same effect on the large man as fist-bumping a brick wall. He was heaved into the van, where he landed face-down behind the driver’s and passenger’s seats. Dazed from the hard hit, Greg looked around the vehicle even though he couldn’t see much of it. His trained brain worked overtime to pick up as many details as possible, but the van itself was relatively clean and still had a faint dealership scent. In addition, his eyes burned and attempting to see through the red haze that clouded his vision proved difficult.

Even though the small effort brought pain and more nausea,he succeeded in raising himself up onto his elbows. The side window was still a foot above his head, and there was no rear door on this side of the vehicle. Greg reached a hand upwards, hoping to get someone’s attention on the busy Vegas streets but a weight unexpectedly pressed down onto his back. Simultaneously a big hand pushed his face against the floor of the van. He craned his head to the side to see the bartender kneeling on him. Following a quick scan of the lot to reassure herself there were no witnesses, Amber climbed in behind the two men and slammed the door shut behind her.

The way that Greg was held down made it impossible to squirm away, but that didn’t stop him from trying. He struggled as frantic words were exchanged between Harris and Amber.

“What the fuck! That blow should have knocked him out!”

“Well, he’s still fighting. Hold him down!”

“What does it look like I’m doing? Hurry up and do something!”

Following a brief pause, a hand suddenly appeared in front of Greg’s face. The hand held a cloth saturated in a substance that he could already smell. He tried to turn his face away but the hand on the back of his head pressed harder. The cool cloth found his mouth and nose and the musty scent was something he hoped to never experience this closely: trichloromethane, otherwise known as chloroform. Knowing it was already too late, he still held his breath until he couldn’t anymore.

After finally gasping in a starved inhalation, his throat began to burn from the noxious fumes and Greg panicked, fighting harder. His legs kicked and his shoulders lurched, but his arms and torso were held firmly in place by Harris’s weight. He tried to shout for help but any sound he managed to emit was weak, muffled, and unlikely to be heard past the walls of the van. The lightheadedness reminded him of his past hospital stays and the medications that took away the pain but brought their own burden of side-effects.

“Hit him with something! It’s not working!”

“Not everything is like in the movies, dumb ass! It takes a while.”

The voices had become garbled as if Greg was underwater and he could no longer make out which voice belonged to who. He continued to struggle until something heavy whacked him on the side of his head and finally darkness welcomed Greg to its lair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited/updated chapter 10/7/2020


	4. Exhale, Expel

_My soundtrack: “Ne’er Do Wells” by Audra Mae, “Fear Inoculum” by Tool_

* * *

_Nevada v. Adams & Adams: Expert Testimonies_

_Dr. Chiara Waynes, MD: psychiatrist and expert for the defense_

“Throughout my interactions and sessions with the Adams sisters, it is my conclusion that both young women are in urgent need of psychiatric aid and likely have been since they were very young.”

“Your honor,” William Phelps, the prosecutor, objected. “Isn’t this a breach of doctor/patient confidentiality?”

Dr. Waynes rose a hand tentatively. “I can explain that, your honor. Normally, yes. But both sisters signed waivers for the privilege after I advised them that my point of view will help their case. I know what those girls went through.”

“You only know what they’ve told you,” Phelps argued as he stood. “What’s to stop them from lying?”

The Adams’ defense attorney, Robert Thelen, held his hands up in apparent exasperation. “I’m sorry your honor, but did we just skip the rest of my own questioning of Dr. Waynes?”

“Mr. Phelps, unless you have a legitimate objection, please have a seat and wait your turn,” the judge ordered.

Phelps sat down heavily, sighing. The defendants were trying to get away with murder by pleading that they were emotionally unstable during the commission of the crime, and therefore not responsible for their actions. If they were able to convince the judge and jury of this, it was probable they would see little to no prison time.

The defense attorney smirked in Phelps’ direction before continuing his questioning. “That’s actually what I was going to ask next, before I was interrupted. How did you know that the Adams sisters weren’t lying to you and trying to earn sympathy?”

“There are records of their father relinquishing the sisters to child services, and we have reports of the number of times the sisters were transferred back and forth while they were in foster care. Many times, during home checks, they were found with bruises or other injuries. That is, when home checks actually occurred.”

“And has there been any research studies completed that prove the sisters may have been permanently emotionally scarred from their childhood experiences?”

“There is abundant research in my field concluding that, due to the unorganized foster care system and the lack of regularity in foster children’s fragile lives, those children to become more likely to live a life of crime, drugs, abuse, or a mixture of the above.”

“So you’re saying that foster children, like the Adams sisters, were dealt a bad hand the moment they landed with the state?” Thelen asked.

“I believe the girls were dealt a bad hand at birth, and the experiences throughout their childhood made them who they are today. Their mother abandoning them, their father beating them, and the state juggling them around between neglective and abusive homes. These girls don’t need prison cells; they need help.”

“Thank you, Dr. Waynes. No further questions, your honor.”

Finally Phelps was allowed to jump up and approach the witness stand. “You say that the sisters were abused as children by their father?”

“Yes.”

“So I’m assuming you have police reports, written testimony from teachers that proves abuse, neglect, etcetera. Am I correct?”

“Well, no, but we talked to several people, and they—”

“Yes or no, Dr. Waynes?”

“No.” The woman smiled tightly at the prosecutor. “No charges were ever filed against the father.”

“So, I reiterate: You don’t have any _real_ proof that the sisters were ‘programmed’ from birth to torture and kill a man?” Phelps turned toward the Adams sisters, just catching a small smile on one.

“There are studies.”

“Dr. Waynes, thousands of children are moved through the Clark County foster system each year. Do you know what percentage of them actually turn into murderers? Was that in your studies?”

“Well, I’m sure it’s—”

“Miniscule, Dr. Waynes.”

“Objection!” The Adams’ attorney stood. “Is the prosecution going to allow my witness to fully answer any questions?”

The judge raised one eyebrow at Phelps. “Sustained. Either get to the point or ask questions you don’t already know the answer to, Mr. Phelps.”

“Yes, your honor.” Clearing his throat, Phelps redirected. “Dr. Waynes, in your years in the field have you ever worked with anyone quite like the Adams sisters?”

“I suppose not. Every client is different. The sisters have made quite an impact on me, however, and they’ve inspired me to act out against the foster care system that failed and damaged them so severely.”

“My point is, Doctor, that there are no studies out there that suggest foster care creates psychopaths like the Adams sisters.” He turned to the jury. “It’s a nature versus nurture argument that ignores the fact that the sisters held a man hostage, tortured him, strangled him, and finally _killed_ him. And they knew exactly what they were doing—they even poorly attempted to stage the death as a suicide, and admitted to this detail after they were caught. These two women committed a number of crimes, not least of which: murder. They need to be punished for this, not heavily medicated living in padded rooms and going to counseling sessions in which they enjoy flaunting their wrongdoings to other psychopaths.”

“Is there a question here, Mr. Phelps?” the judge questioned, her voice becoming less patient.

“No. No further questions, your honor. Thank you, Dr. Waynes.”

The Adams sisters shared a glance at the table that they occupied with their lawyer. Their identical straight, black hair obscured their faces as they leaned closer together, speaking in hushed whispers accented with giggles.

* * *

A throbbing headache, a stiff neck, and the familiar coppery scent and taste of blood greeted Greg as his body awakened and his mind reluctantly emerged from a shadowy, perverse nightmare. The memory of the dream was already fading but the residual powerlessness and fear lingered. He tried to open his eyes but his lids stuck as if caked in adhesive. After prying them open with difficulty and some pain, he instantly regretted doing so as light glared in and his headache shifted into overdrive. He grimaced and clenched his eyes closed again. Reaching to cradle his throbbing head in his hands, Greg froze when he realized his arms would not…no, _could_ not respond.

He was seated, tilting forward and head lolling, which explained the stiff neck. If his wrists had not been secured together behind the back of the chair he surely would have toppled forward long ago. Greg realized with confusion that his ankles were also tied to the chair’s front legs. His shoulders ached and his breathing was constricted due to the strain of the unnatural position. His wrists felt chafed and he could barely feel his hands. He told himself not to panic and once again opened his eyes, wider this time, but still squinted against the intrusive light.

Being a chemist before he was a C.S.I, Greg was accustomed to working with dangerous substances and had made his fair share of mistakes in the lab. One time in his early days at Stanford, it had slipped his mind in his chem lab to wear goggles when measuring sodium hydroxide, a substance that can be particularly toxic to the eyes. Fortunately, his exposure to the vapor had been minimal, but he could have easily ended up blind. His eyes had burned like hell for days and he’d had to use prescription eye drops for an entire month. The sensation he felt now—the burning in his eyes and the dryness that made his lids feel like sandpaper—reminded him of how he felt then.

What was he exposed to this time? Greg knew that he should remember but his mind was a jumble of conflicting thoughts and memories. He managed to raise his head slightly and leaned back against the chair, thus relieving some of the tension in his shoulders and making it a bit easier to breathe.

The room that he occupied turned out to be dimmer than Greg’s concussion-influenced mind had initially thought. It was quite gloomy in fact, and the only source of light was indirect sunlight through a single, small window high up one of the walls. He looked around as much as he could. The stone that comprised the four walls was filthy and blemished by what appeared to be layers of mildew, feces, and stagnate blood. Greg recognized the unique odor of a two-week-old homicide scene; decomposition emanated from the dark red splotches and splatters.

The window was to his left, and there was a closed, sturdy-looking door to his right. His back was inches from the grimy wall behind him. The floor was dirtier than the walls, sporting a thick layer of sand, dirt, dust, and other substances which Greg could only guess. Some bales of moldy straw sat in one corner and several buckets lined another. The insect activity above and on the buckets, and the grunge coating the outside of them gave him a good idea of their contents. The room closely resembled an animal enclosure but he knew that even most animals lived more comfortably than this.

He thought about yelling for help, but didn’t want the attempt to anger whoever tied him there. Based on the room and the quiet of the outside world, Greg doubted he was being kept anywhere close to civilization. Despite valiant attempts to fight the sensation off, panic gradually sat in as Greg took in his surroundings and tried desperately to remember how he ended up there. He tugged forcefully against his bindings, ignoring the protests of his sore muscles and numb, tingling fingers. When the ropes would not loosen, he growled in frustration and looked down at the chair he was tied to. It appeared to be an older dining chair, and the swollen wood told him that it hadn’t been stored in the best environment. He took a few deep breaths, then began to rock himself back and forth, trying to tip the chair to one side. If he was lucky, it would crack and he could get free.

Finally he succeeded and the wooden chair crashed onto the floor to the left. The chair itself didn’t crack, but Greg’s head did, against the concrete ground. It would have been an even harder hit if it wasn’t for the layer of dirt. The crashing sound was likely to alert anyone nearby. Greg’s left arm was pinched painfully under the edge of the back of the chair. He was dazed at this point, eyes open but all he saw was a star-speckled night sky, and slowly even the stars flickered out.

Maybe he lost consciousness or perhaps he simply blinked; he couldn’t be sure, but his eyes opened again and the whole world was sideways. It took him a moment to recall that he was on the floor still tied to an unbroken chair, but he still couldn’t remember how he ended up here. The air in the small room was hot but the floor was cool. It felt good against his skin, and Greg basked in the relative comfort. A motion just in front of his face caught his attention, and his eyes followed the scorpion that scurried across the floor, inches from his nose, to shelter in the form of a small crack in the wall.

_‘At least I have company,’_ he thought meagerly.

His vision cleared further when the sound of a door slamming and faint voices caught his attention. He recognized that at least two sets of legs strode directly in front of him and stopped, facing him. There was a large pair of men’s boots and a small pair of high-heeled riding boots, but since his vision kept doubling it could have been more. The glint behind the heels hinted to spurs. Greg’s ears registered that there was a male voice and a female voice speaking above him. His sight and hearing faded in and out in turn, and all he could do was stare straight ahead and try not to pass out.

Either way all senses came crashing back when a boot impacted with his stomach. A steel-toed work boot, from the feel of it. Greg’s breath left him in a wheeze and the pain was unbearable. His instinct was to curl around his abdomen, but his arms were still bound behind him and most movement proved impossible with the hindrance of the chair. If Greg felt up to it in this moment, he would have been thankful that the latest abuse at least distracted from his headache.

“Liam! Be nice. He’s already struggling,” the female voice reprimanded. Greg now realized this voice sounded faintly familiar, but in the fight to catch his breath he couldn’t quite grasp where he knew it from.

“You just want him to yourself,” another familiar voice growled. It presumably belonged to this ‘Liam’ the woman addressed.

“Well, true. He’ll need all of his energy for later. Now get him up for me,” the woman demanded.

A huge, calloused hand seized Greg’s upper arm and pulled. The chair was set back on its legs and Greg groaned, nearly getting sick from the sudden movement. Once he was righted, he was able to get a glimpse of the owner of the female voice. Recognition, then confusion flashed through his eyes.

“Amber,” Greg gasped through the cramping in his stomach.

She leaned down and grinned at him. “Who else?”

When he gave no response, her grin vanished. “You know, I was disappointed when you didn’t recognize me in the bar. But then I realized it gave me even more of an advantage.”

“We’ve never met,” Greg said, although he was beginning to question his ability to correctly recall anything right now. Sniffing to try to clear his nose, Greg realized it felt broken. Along with the smell of his own blood he also caught a faint whiff of trichloromethane; that explained the burning in his eyes. Memories began to flow back to him: drinking at the bar with the blonde, then feeling drunk and being escorted to a cab by the bartender and the blonde.

_No. Not a cab. A van._

“All right, all right. I guess you haven’t met _me,_ ” Amber was saying. “You know Whitney.”

Greg narrowed his eyes at the woman, but still had no idea what she was talking about. “Whitney?”

“Yes, but just call me Amber.”

“Why wouldn’t I? I thought that was your name.” He squinted through another wave of nausea.

“A name is only a name.”

“Wow. You are _really_ crazy,” he stated bitterly.

This earned him a hard cuff to the side of the head from Liam, and this time Amber said nothing in his defense. Greg groaned and bit his tongue.

“Do you know what _is_ crazy? Being in love with a married woman who looks at you like she would a stray dog begging for scraps.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. Was she talking about Sara? That wasn’t how Sara saw him…right?

“You’ve been watching me,” he prompted, trying to redirect the conversation to why he was here.

“No. At least not at first. It started with Sara. And as you know, you two sure are around each other a decent amount. In my research I learned that you were involved also, and I couldn’t believe my luck.” As she spoke, Amber slowly circled the chair in which he was tied.

“Involved in what? Why were you spying on Sara?” As he strained his neck to keep her in sight, Greg continued to seek answers. He knew that he was pushing his luck but this whole situation made him anxious—among other things—and when he became anxious, he talked.

“You’re asking too many questions,” she confirmed.

“Is this about a case? At least help me to understand before you kill me,” Greg argued. Although he had stepped back and said nothing, he could feel Liam’s presence behind him. The man had already proved willing to resort to physical violence, and Greg would have preferred for him to stand anywhere else.

Having completed a circle around the chair, Amber was now back in front of him. She leaned down once more. No longer smiling, she stared deep into his eyes. “If I kill you it will be an accident. You really do worry too much.”

Confusion, fear, and irritation flashed through Greg’s mind with each throb of his headache. He comprehended that Sara could also be in danger and the fact that he could do nothing to protect her angered him. Without pausing to think the decision through fully, he spat at Amber.

He heard shifting next to him and winced; braced himself for the blow he knew was coming when Amber spoke up sharply. “No, Liam! Leave us now.”

After a brief hesitation, Greg heard the large man stride unhurriedly away and the opening and closing of a door. Amber smiled once more and wiped Greg’s spit carefully from her face with a sleeve. He eyed her warily, struggling to keep his head up.

He still felt queasy, and a cold sweat was starting to soak the black t-shirt and tan pants he wore. Greg was positive he had a concussion; at least that made one thing of which he was sure. His left arm felt sluggish and tingled painfully as it slowly regained blood circulation after being trapped beneath the sharp edge of the side of the chair, but he didn’t think it was broken. His wrists and ankles burned where they rubbed against the bindings, and the muscles in his stomach protested every breath.

He was hyperventilating now and he wondered what was wrong with him. He’d worked hard on his self-defense after that morning in the alley. There was no excuse now. He should be able to fight back; to Houdini himself out of the restrictive ropes and pick any locks standing in his way of leaving this place. Instead his thoughts grew foggier. Greg heard a pathetic wheezing and realized it was coming from him.

Amber straightened and made her way first to his side and then behind him. She ran a hand slowly from the back of his neck to his hair and Greg cringed at the touch. He tried to pull away but her fingers painfully wound into his hair and she yanked his head back, exposing his throat and causing him to grit his teeth and hiss in pain. Only a moment after, there was a motion at his side and a familiar sting in his upper arm.

His lungs were still deprived, but rapidly his breathing slowed. Greg’s heart followed suit, transitioning from a quick hammering to a steady but loud _thud_. He felt his body relax into the chair and his head lolled forward again.

“You seem a bit off, Greg. Are you feeling all right?”

“Peachy,” Greg managed, peering up at her. Amber’s face began to ripple and focus in and out. The room spun. The strawbales and the buckets morphed into the sun and the moon, and splatters of gore on the walls became distant planets and galaxies.

And Greg sat in the middle of it all, watching as Amber pulled a shiny object from her waistband and made the first cut. He recognized the sting but could not react.

“As much as I enjoy your spark, Greggy, I can’t let you embarrass me in front of Liam like that,” she whispered close to his ear.

The blood trickled. The illusion of a sky glimmered then flickered like a dying light bulb. His last coherent thoughts revolved around chemistry; around the possible combinations of hallucinogenic and sedative compounds that could make a person see themselves as the center of the universe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoy writing court scenes, in case you couldn't tell. :) Now that I'm four chapters in, please let me know what you think so far!
> 
> *updated 11/1/2020


	5. The Search (Almost) Begins

_My soundtrack: “Moon” by Little People, “Everything in Its Right Place” by Radiohead_

* * *

It was past two in the afternoon when Sara dragged herself out of bed. After calling in sick to work the previous night, she stared at the pages of a book for hours without comprehending the words. Just before ten a.m. she gave up on reading and finally slumped into her bed in exhaustion. She awoke in that exact position over four hours later. She hadn’t meant to sleep for so long, but staying in bed was just too appealing when waking up meant confronting what happened the previous day. She’d called in to work because she just couldn’t face Greg after what transpired between them. Not yet; not until she processed it.

Not only did she have Greg to worry about, but also on her mind was the nagging reminder that she was single. Or, at least on her way to being single. After Greg left, Sara had called Grissom and told him they should get a divorce. Her feelings toward Greg let her know that her relationship with Grissom wasn’t what is once was. It wasn’t as strong, and the ring on Sara’s finger was beginning to feel like a weight; a source of sadness.

She wasn’t surprised at his reaction: not quite uncaring, but certainly not overtly passionate. Besides a brief hesitation, her husband sounded the same as he always did. It was difficult to judge his true thoughts via telephone since most of the man’s tells were in his eyes, but he seemed to accept her words and agreed to work through the process amicably.

Picking up her cellphone from where it sat charging on the kitchen counter and glancing over the screen, she realized she hadn’t checked it since before midnight. Normally it would always be at her side, even at home in case the lab needed her, but last night she knew she wouldn’t be called in. Russell had been trying to get Sara to take a day off once in a while, and he wouldn’t have called her in if the world was ending.

There were a few missed calls, most from numbers she didn’t recognize, but only one voicemail. It was from Greg. She leaned against the counter’s edge as she listened to the rambling, nervous message. She couldn’t help but smile when he talked about bringing her soup if she was sick.

She regretted her reaction when he told her how he felt. She knew that most, if not all of her irritation was projected. Sure, his timing had been poor, but her signals and actions had not helped. Could she really be angry at Greg for confessing his true feelings for her? He certainly hadn’t held back over the years; especially the early ones.

He’d proven himself a trustworthy and treasured, if a bit flirty, friend. The idea of anything awkward between them was unsettling, so Sara resolved to call him and meet that day before work to try to tidy the mess she made. He wouldn’t be at the bar anymore; after all, he’d called nearly four hours ago, but she hoped that he would be somewhere near his phone.

She dialed him twice. The fact that he didn’t pick up was odd. It wasn’t like Greg to not answer his phone, especially when the call was someone he knew. On the other hand, he had been working just as much as the rest of them lately and getting just as little sleep. This fact was easy to forget since he was normally so level-headed and wasn’t prone to the same impatience and tantrums when tired, as the others. Greg was likely— _hopefully_ —sleeping, getting the rest he needed. Another possibility: he was screening her calls.

Giving up on contacting him for the time being, Sara set her phone back on the counter. They were both on shift tonight so she would see him eventually, whether they met beforehand or not. This gave her more time to figure out what to tell him. She prepared a small meal for herself, then spent the rest of the day before her shift performing mindless cleaning tasks that she had been neglecting recently.

That night at work, Sara was concerned when Greg still hadn’t arrived fifteen minutes after the graveyard shift began. The rest of the investigators noticed as well, but were willing to assume he was simply running late; that he had slept through his alarm or encountered heavy traffic. The gang went into their nightly meeting to receive their assignments, leaving the room’s door cracked and believing Greg would show up soon.

When he was thirty minutes late, Russell called Greg’s cell number and was immediately redirected to voicemail. He left a message. An hour later, Nick tried to call him and again it seemed as if his phone was off. They had no better luck with Greg’s home phone.

Even though everyone was starting to worry, there were still scenes to work and evidence to process. Nick and Sara worked a robbery scene together that shift. It was fairly straight-forward, and it only took them two hours to process the scene. After they had collected their evidence, they decided to make one more stop before heading back to the lab.

The apartment building was located in a quiet area on the edge of the city. It was a longer commute to the crime lab, but the rent was reasonable and the neighborhood mostly safe. Nick kept a copy of Greg’s apartment key; an arrangement made some time ago. Sara wanted to ask the story but somehow now didn’t seem the time.

Greg’s car was not at the complex where he normally parked, and he didn’t answer their raps at his door. Nick unlocked and opened it. They wandered through the neat, quiet apartment, calling their friend’s name softly. A glance into his bedroom revealed a made bed. There were no signs of anything out of place, no sign of Greg’s keys, wallet, or phone. Nothing indicated that he’d been there since the previous day.

They exited and locked up the apartment behind them.

“They’re gonna say he skipped town,” Nick predicted.

Sara raised her eyebrows as they reentered their vehicle. “Greg’s lived in Vegas for fifteen years. He wouldn’t just up and leave without telling anyone.”

“I know that,” Nick stated quickly, easing the SUV out of the parking lot and back onto the nearly-empty, early morning streets.

The ride back to the lab was tense and silent until they pulled into the parking garage. Sara suddenly jumped up in her seat and asked Nick to drive up to the fourth floor. Her outburst nearly gave him a heart attack after the otherwise quiet trip.

“What? Why? Company vehicles park in the basement.”

“Just do it.”

Acting on a hunch, Sara directed the way to the corner that Greg normally tucked his small car into. Any fear that she had before about something happening to Greg amplified when they found it there.

Nick’s eyes widened. “What do you make of that?”

Creeping to a halt in front of it, the two jumped out and walked over to the car. They peeked into the windows, but as with the apartment nothing looked out of place. Their eyes met over the roof.

“Still think he skipped town?”

“I never said I believed it,” Nick defended himself, his drawl intensifying as it did when he tried to pacify others. “I’m just pointing out what issues are gonna come up when we bring this to Ecklie. Plenty of people choose to take a bus or train instead of their own vehicle, especially if they don’t want to be tracked down.”

Sara nodded. “I know.”

She sighed deeply, wondering where Greg could be. He wasn’t the type to run away; everyone who knew Greg knew that. Something happened to him, and Sara wished he had left them more clues.

* * *

“He probably drank too much,” Nick reasoned, although he didn’t sound too convinced himself. He and Sara were exiting Ecklie’s office, where they had just met with Ecklie, Brass, and D.B. to voice their concerns about Greg.

As predicted, Ecklie had declined to investigate it as a missing persons case. According to him, Greg hadn’t been gone long enough to waste man hours on him. Brass and D.B. were both clearly worried for Greg’s welfare, but were helpless to use resources to look for him without approval.

“You said that he was probably about to go out and drink when he left you a voicemail, right?” Nick continued. Sara strode next to him, flushed with anger. She had told Nick that Greg left her a voicemail, where he called her from, and what time, but not what had prompted the call. She also hadn’t mentioned her last call to Grissom.

“So, the guy had tough day, had one too many, and ended up…” Nick swallowed deeply, “Making some bad decisions? Say he goes home with a friend. A hangover along with trying to survive on little to no sleep a night for weeks on end? I bet his body’s just taking the rest while it can.”

Sara shook her head stubbornly. “And this ‘friend’ just lets him sleep all day at their place? No. Greg is rarely late, he never sleeps in, and he barely drinks, let alone enough to get him drunk. He’s also not likely to go home with random people.”

Nick scrutinized her. “Are we talking about the same guy here?”

She sighed. “He’s not like that anymore.”

He knew she was right, but admitting that meant facing the very real possibility that something _was_ wrong. If something happened to Greg it had now been nearly twenty-four hours since anyone heard from him, which meant they were a day behind in his search already.

They both turned when they heard footsteps hurrying to catch up to them. D.B. and Brass were there, both winded.

“I’m sorry about that,” D.B. said. “But Ecklie can’t stop us from searching for Greg while we’re _off_ the clock, right? Let’s go.”

* * *

The gang split up into pairs and spread out across Vegas, checking places that Greg was known to frequent. Sara and Nick chose to head out to Jack’s, since it was the last place they knew him to be.

The girl working the bar at could barely pass for eighteen. Her skintight tank-top showed too much, but Sara wasn’t planning to question her legality unless she made things difficult. She and Nick watched as the bartender worked her way down the crowded bar, flirting and leaning on her elbows, trading glimpses of her assets for compliments and tips. When she arrived in front of Nick and Sara, she ignored the latter and focused a seductive smile on Nick.

“And what can I do ya for, handsome?”

Nick returned her smile, although his was not as seductive. “That all depends on what you can tell us about this man.”

The girl’s eyes drifted downward to the picture that Nick presented, lingering briefly on it until landing on and paying more attention to the badge not-so-discreetly laid on the bar top in front of him. He may not have been on the clock, but Nick didn’t have a problem with flashing his badge to improve compliance.

“I’ve never seen that man before in my life.” Her expression had changed from flirty to guarded.

“He would have been in yesterday morning,” Sara prompted.

“I wasn’t here yesterday morning.”

“You’re here _this_ morning,” Nick pointed out.

The girl glanced around the bar and dining area, noting that every patron seemed content for the moment. “Come with me, out the side door.”

They followed her outside to where the small parking area for the bar lay. She lit up a cigarette, then turned to them. “I only work here when my uncle needs some time off.”

“Your uncle?” Sara asked.

“The owner.”

“Jack?”

“No, William Harris.”

Nick looked seriously confused. “Well then who’s—”

“What is _your_ name?” Sara cut him off.

“Yvonne.”

“Alright, Yvonne. How can we get ahold of your uncle?”

“I can get you his number,” Yvonne told them, pulling her phone from her pocket. “But he’s probably out in the desert, and he doesn’t get service out there.”

Nick prepared to write the number down. As Yvonne scrolled through her contacts, Sara gestured back at the tavern. “I saw cameras in there. Are they dummies?”

Yvonne giggled. “All but one.”

“We’re gonna need that footage.”

“And _I’m_ gonna need a warrant,” the girl retorted.

Nick rolled his eyes, turned to Sara, and pulled out his cellphone.

* * *

Hours—maybe days—went by with Greg in a semi-conscious state. Unable to make sense of anything, he was only aware enough to absently note intermittent blurs of shapes and colors around him. He began to come around and the ringing in his ears dulled just enough to allow him to pick up a conversation.

“…the guy off at a hospital.”

“You’re an idiot. Do you _want_ to get caught?”

“No, but I think we’re in over our heads.”

“Maybe _you’re_ in over your head, but I’m in my element. It’s too late to back out now, Liam. I told you what would happen if you chickened out on me.”

“Fine, but I’ve got to get the cops off my back. I’ll be back tonight.”

Footsteps and a door slamming precluded an eerie silence so prolonged that Greg thought he’d lost his sense of hearing. Unable to bear the depth of it, he tried to recall why he felt like death. The dense fog in his mind…he’d felt this before. When? And why?

_Drugs, Gregory. Drugs do this to you. And no, not the fun kind._

“I’m bored. Let me tell you a story.”

The proximity of these most recent words startled and roused him into opening his eyes, and there was Amber.

_Oh, right. Kidnapped, tied up, chloroform, some sort of injectable sedative…_

“You’ll want to hear this one.”

The blonde had pulled a chair close and sat before him, leaned forward, and raised her voice to keep his attention.

Too queasy to care what she thought he wanted, Greg allowed his eyes to droop closed once more. An unwelcome stinging sensation revived him when she slapped him hard across the face. He groaned and tried to lift his head but his neck and shoulders cramped painfully from his positioning.

“I have to warn you: I always fell asleep during story time,” Greg told her groggily after stretching his jaw, feeling it pop. “In kindergarten, I had two nap hours a day.”

“You’ve napped enough.”

Unamused, Amber stood and made her way behind Greg’s chair, again assuming the same position of power that she preferred. Fingers entwined in his hair and pulled his head back. She moved in so close to his ear that he could both feel and smell her breath. He tried to writhe away but she only pulled harder. He finally froze when he felt the cold steel trace over his Adam’s apple.

“You have to understand that everything will go much smoother if you don’t speak. For your sake, I hope you realize that sooner rather than later.”

He was terrified to move. The only way he could come up with to survive all of this was to be a smartass; however, his greatest inspiration for holding his tongue was currently exploring the curves of his neck. It rested when it found the rapid throb of his pulse. His breathing sped up, and he could only hope that Amber really did need him alive.

“But I can’t expect you to learn without any sort of guidance, can I? Well, here’s today’s lesson.”

In one fluid motion, Amber shifted the tip of the knife half an inch to the side, pressed deeper, and dragged it down to his collarbone. He couldn’t hold back the shout of fear as he felt warmth rapidly coat the front of his shirt. The absence of pain alarmed him, as well as the amount of blood he was losing. It was too much, and he couldn’t even reach to stanch it.

Hyperventilating, Greg pulled desperately against his bindings. He heard the door close as Amber left him on his own, and he growled in frustration. For the first time since finding himself here, he yelled for help because he felt his life draining from him and was helpless to stop it.

“Help! Somebody!”

Cold swept through his body and his vision flickered. His skull felt full of helium and he knew he was about to black out.

“Somebody please, help me…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *updated 2/15/21


	6. Control Freak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! Busy holidays, blah blah blah. Here's an extra long chapter to hopefully make up for it. Also, although I do have a ton of this series written, it is still un-Beta'd and constantly under revision. Please let me know if you see any mistakes or inconsistencies, and I will change it! 
> 
> Thank you so much for the kudos! It's nice to know someone's out there. Please review!

_My soundtrack: “Bukowski” by Modest Mouse, “Anybody Out There” by Civil Twilight_

* * *

Since Greg’s disappearance had yet to become an official investigation, Nick was forced to call in a favor to get a warrant for the footage. Knowing it shouldn’t take long, the two investigators waited in Nick’s truck in the small parking lot next to Jack’s. Sara tried the number for William Harris they were given, but as expected it went right to an automated voicemail.

Sara squeezed the cellphone in her hands, frustrated. She wracked her brain for any way to move forward in Greg’s search; sitting idle was the worst feeling. Idle meant nothing to distract her from the thoughts of what might have happened to Greg. Less than an hour after Nick’s initial request, the CSIs obtained the approval to seize the footage.

“That’s quite the favor,” Sara remarked suggestively as they exited the vehicle. Nick winked at her before heading inside the bar once more to give Yvonne the happy news.

Sara lingered outside. She planted her hands on her hips and began to not-so-casually scour the parking lot. She was unsure what exactly she was looking for, but in this moment it gave her something to focus on besides the team’s chances of finding Greg alive versus dead.

Sara wrinkled her nose as she scanned the pavement, decorated with its adornment of tobacco spit, receipts, cigarette butts, even an occasional condom wrapper. And gum…so much gum.

Her brain quickly catalogued and prioritized the mess on the pavement. She paced the lot, focusing for now on the area closest to the side entrance to Jack’s, and at last something caught her attention. Sara crouched in front of the object.

“Got the video files.” A shadow covered the area in front of Sara, and she glanced up as Nick continued, “You should have seen the look on that girl’s face when I told her we already had the warrant. What do you have there?”

“Somebody tore a fingernail. Could you grab my kit please?”

When Nick returned with her kit, Sara quickly opened it and pulled on a glove. After laying down a marker and snapping a picture, she used thumb forceps to pick up the nail and observe it closer. Nick knelt, grabbing a small evidence envelope and holding it open for Sara. “Is that blood?”

“Looks to be,” Sara dropped the nail into the envelope. “Let’s bring it back to the lab, have DNA and trace analyze it.”

“What’re we gonna tell day shift? They’ll need to know the case it’s from. Ecklie will catch on in no time.”

Sara signed, frustrated. She knew Nick was right. “I guess we’ll have better luck with our own guys, later tonight. They won’t ask as many questions.”

Nick and Sara returned to the lab and set out for the AV lab with the files with the footage from the previous day. The day shift AV guy was on lunch, so the two investigators were able to commandeer the equipment to scour the tapes for clues.

It didn’t take long to find him, since they knew when he’d called Sara and could predict that he had head in shortly after. Unfortunately, the one camera that functioned only focused on the area of the cash register behind the bar. Unless Greg sat in one of the three bar stools directly in front of the register, this angle was unlikely to give them much information. They spotted Greg—at least the upper third of him—pass by the camera when he entered at 10:14 A.M. 

Where ever he chose to sit, it was out of sight of the camera. Nick and Sara fast-forwarded through just under two hours of useless footage before they finally caught Greg’s exit from the establishment. He appeared to be supported between two people: a man and a woman.

Sara’s jaw dropped in disbelief when Nick slowed down the playback. She felt sick. Greg staggered, tripping over his own feet as he leaned on the arms of the pair at his sides. “He looks drugged. He can barely hold his own head up.”

The grim expression on Nick’s face betrayed his otherwise composed exterior. He’d seen Greg drunk a few times over the years they’d known each other, but he’d never seen Greg act like _this_ while drunk. “Yeah. And he’s getting a whole lot of help from our friend the bartender, and whoever the hell that is,” he pointed at the now paused and zoomed screen.

The girl faced away from the camera for the entirety of her time onscreen. Upon further inspection, they didn’t catch her entrance at all; so, she must have entered through the back of the establishment. They’d have to rely on the bartender to identify her.

* * *

Greg didn’t know how he wasn’t dead yet, but the bleeding from the cut in his neck eventually slowed to a drip and finally, seemingly ceased. He lost enough blood to feel considerably weaker than before, and his nausea and blurred vision had also intensified. He somehow managed to drift off, but his dreams were filled with monsters, gore, and shadows.

Gray morning light was just beginning to seep in through the dusty window when the jangling of the chains securing the door awoke Greg from his slumber. He tried to raise his head but a muscle in his shoulder spasmed painfully. His head had lolled awkwardly to the side for hours, so any effort to move triggered sharp protests from his tired body. Even the slight motion he could manage caused the caked, dried blood to pull at his cut. He felt a trickle and knew he was bleeding again.

He heard soft footsteps, and once she came into view he knew Amber’s entrance must have been what woke him. He could make her out in the corner of his eyes, leaning down, gawking at him. She wore a blue rain jacket over a pink tank top, along with black yoga pants.

“If you’re looking for a show, you might want to take a rain check. I can barely move.” His tone came out strong, but his voice was weak, raspy.

_So in total, I probably sound about half-strong right now. That’s not too bad._

Amber chuckled. “’Barely moving', huh? Now _that_ is how I like you.”

Not knowing what kind of response was expected of him, Greg remained silent. He made no further effort to shift his position and watched her closely in his periphery. He worked at taking deep breaths while he pondered if his team was looking for him yet.

 _'Of course they are,'_ he reassured himself. His coworkers knew him better than to believe he had willingly no-call-no-showed to work. And his car was still in the parking garage, which should raise flags. Unless Amber or the bartender had moved it after taking the keys from him.

On the other hand, he hadn’t been able to leave them any obvious clues. If they were looking for him, how long would it take them to find him? Listening to Amber speak, he became surer that his friends would find him too late.

 _'Silence seems to be the best response_ ,' he thought vaguely as Amber began to talk again, this time about her childhood, her misfortunes. She dragged a folding chair from somewhere outside of the door, and propped it up in front of him. She had also brought a fleece blanket, which she sat on and wrapped around herself.

Greg trembled involuntarily. The night chill lingered in the cement-lined room, and the blanket looked extremely comfortable.

Amber rambled for what felt like hours.

Greg tried to pay attention. He kept reminding himself that anything he learned may help him escape, but he hurt everywhere and his headache had only worsened the longer he’d been awake. He knew that if he had anything in his stomach his body would have rejected it.

“I didn’t have a protective mother growing up, Greg. Not like you. No loving grandparents, no real support system,” Amber was saying. “All I had was my older sister. Our mother died giving birth to me. Our father abused us. In foster care, we were too old to be cute and too bonded to fit easily into an established family. When my sister turned eighteen, she was finally able to get us out of there.”

This was all starting to sound vaguely familiar to Greg. He recalled a case, years and years ago, but only vague details. It had been two sisters, tried together in a kidnapping and murder case. He was sure at this point that ‘Amber’ was not her real name, but besides a last name he couldn’t recall more details about the case from which she sought revenge. “Adams.”

“Things finally clicking into place for you?” Amber smiled, rose from her seat, and roughly patted Greg on the shoulder. He flinched. “Oh, speaking of mothers, does yours know you’re out in the field yet?”

He only glared straight ahead.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’. Perhaps once I’m done with you and Sara, I’ll pay her a visit. After all, she deserves to know the truth, doesn’t she? How her one and only child has been _lying_ to her for over eight years?”

Amber laughed again before leaving his side. As she exited the room, she called over her shoulder, “Get some rest. It’s still early.”

After the last statements made by Amber, Greg felt certain that rest would not come easily, if at all. Not only did he need to worry about Sara, now Amber sounded willing to bring his family into this mess.

* * *

William Harris, current owner and manager of Jack’s Bar and Grill, returned Nick’s steady gaze from across the interrogation room table. Brass stood by the exit in the cramped room. Nick was allowed to run the interview, but Brass wanted it to be known that he would not allow Nick’s involvement in the case to impact his good judgment as a law enforcement official.

Thanks to the seized surveillance video, Greg now had enough suspicious circumstances surrounding his disappearance to justify opening a missing persons investigation. DNA was currently processing the torn fingernail. The team had received permission to bring Harris in for questioning much earlier, but it had taken until nine in the evening to finally contact the man, and two more hours for him to arrive at the station.

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” Harris broke the heavy silence first. “You harass my niece at work, terrify my mother by telling her the cops want to speak to me??”

“Now why don’t you just take a deep breath, Mr. Harris.” Nick’s voice was firm, calming. “There’s no reason to get worked up. We just need to ask you a few questions, and you, sir, can be a hard man to locate.”

Sara, forced to watch behind the one-way mirror, was accompanied by D.B. and Catherine. One stood at each of her side, and Sara had a feeling that they had positioned themselves strategically to easily stop her if she felt a sudden urge to invite herself into the interrogation room.

“I go out to the desert to relax. Not great cell phone service out there, so I didn't _know_ you were trying to get hold of me. I did nothing illegal.”

Nick laid Greg’s picture onto the table and slid it toward Harris.

“Am I supposed to recognize this kid?”

“Well I would say so,” Nick’s voice rose, and Brass tensed. But Nick took a deep breath, then slid another picture to Harris. It was a still from the surveillance video, showing Harris, Greg, and the unknown woman. Harris was their best lead, and Nick knew he needed to handle this situation very delicately.

“Oh. That kid.”

“Yeah, _that_ kid,” Nick leaned in to emphasize his next words. “I need you to tell me everything you remember about this man, when he was at your place of business on Tuesday morning.”

Harris leaned in as well. The man’s expression changed from defensive to smug. “That guy…that _kid_ …is a frequent flyer in my joint. Tuesday morning was just like all of the others: he was there to get wasted.”

Nick looked at him incredulously, determining already that Harris was a liar. What else was he going to come up with? “That doesn’t exactly sound like the person his friends describe.”

“Sometimes you never really know a person.” Harris’s tone mocked all in attendance.

“Anyway,” Nick tried to put aside the bad intuitions he was getting about the man. “What else do you remember from that morning?”

“Well, he came in, ordered five double tall gin and tonics over the timespan of about two hours…”

“Greg hates gin,” Sara contradicted under her breath. Catherine nodded in agreement.

“…I could tell the guy was done for after his third drink. He was starting to get confrontational with some of my other guests, so I was forced to show him the way out. I got him a cab.”

“Why did you serve him so many drinks, especially since you noticed he’d had enough?” Nick probed suspiciously. 

Harris rolled his eyes at the question. “He clearly needed it, okay? I could tell he’d had a bad shift. He needed a few drinks. I served him, he paid me, then I helped get him home safely. I did more than my duty.”

“See, the problem with that is that Greg never got home.”

“What happened to that kid after the taxi drove off, I don’t know. Was I supposed to have him call me when he got home safe?”

“So, you must know who this is?” Nick redirected, pointing to the girl on the screenshot from the surveillance video. His voice was still calm but his hands had clenched into fists on the table where they rested. Brass casually took a small step closer to the two other men in the room.

“The kid sat next to her at the bar. I think her name was Amber. He bought her drinks and they talked, flirted, even made out a bit. It was disgusting.”

“That’s it,” Sara declared, turning on her heel.

Catherine and D.B. shouted “NO!” in unison and each put a hand on one of Sara’s shoulders.

“No,” Catherine repeated, quieter this time. Her look said it all, and D.B. confirmed it verbally.

“We don’t have enough to keep this guy. We have some blurry footage that shows Harris helping a probably drunk patron get a safe ride home.”

“But everybody agrees that Greg looks like he’s been drugged in that video. Not drunk. It’s clearly more than that,” Sara argued futilely.

“We can’t prove that,” Catherine reminded her. “The hope was that Harris would be more cooperated, supply use with useful information to further the search.”

“…She helped me get him out to a cab. Like I said, the guy was wasted. He could barely walk,” Harris was telling Nick in the other room.

“Did _she_ get into the taxi with him?”

Harris nodded eagerly. “Yeah, you know what? She did. You guys should definitely find her. I’ll bet _she_ knows what happened to your friend.”

Nick glanced helplessly at the one-way mirror.

“Am I free to go now?” Harris inquired impatiently.

Nick nodded curtly. “For now. Just don’t go too far. I’m sure we’ll need to chat with you again soon.”

* * *

So much time had passed since anyone entered or exited the room that the day had come and gone. Blue-tinted star- and moonlight that evening overtook the gray dawn from the morning and the dusty yellow simmer of the afternoon. The room’s temperature had risen to a swelter in the early afternoon. With the heat came the nearly nauseating smell from the decaying biological remains on the walls and in the buckets. A chill was now returning to the small room, and was new enough to feel nice.

Greg’s bladder was full, but he _refused_ to urinate on himself. His throat was parched; his tongue stuck to the top of his mouth and swallowing was a struggle. His head still throbbed, and a heated sting surrounded the cut on his neck.

Amber, or whatever her name was, joined Greg again well after dark. He hung his head and tried to look asleep. She carried a battery-powered lantern, and he tracked her progress across the room through cracked eyes.

The light became blinding, and Greg heard the woman’s shoes shifting on the dirty floor, her jacket rustling against itself. She was nearly on top of him.

She leaned down and whispered into his ear, “Feeling better?”

Cover blown when he jumped slightly at her voice, Greg moaned slightly as he opened his eyes but squinted against the light’s effect on his headache. He tried to lift his head. “I was starting to think you forgot about me in here.” His voice sounded like his larynx went twelve rounds with Mike Tyson.

“Of course not! I just had some errands to run,” she smiled as she dangled a paper bag by the handles from one finger in front of him.

He tried not to think about the bag’s possible contents. Greg stared at it as if he could see through it if he tried hard enough. _Maybe there’s sandwich makings in there_ , he thought, to which his stomach grumbled loudly. Greg tried to cover the sound with a question but was too late: “What about Harris?”

“He had errands as well—one of them involved a stop at LVPD. It seems your friends are moving faster than I thought.”

Greg felt a flutter in his chest at the implication of her words. If they already questioned Harris, they were on the right track.

“We may only have a week together,” Amber fretted.

Greg’s heart fell again. “Only?”

Amber ignored his sarcasm. “I was not able to finish my point earlier, Greg. You were falling asleep, and you really needed to be awake for the finale to my story.”

“I’m sure it’ll be worth the wait.”

Now behind him based on her voice and the shadowing from the lantern, she continued. “I never had control growing up. I think that’s why I enjoy it so thoroughly now.”

“That’s right, I remember. The abuse from your father, from your foster parents. Although didn’t…Lacey…take the brunt of all that?”

“You really do have a sharp memory, Greg,” Amber praised. “I didn’t expect you to remember me, let alone my dear sister. It’s impressive.” He didn’t miss the derision evident in the last part of her statement.

“It wasn’t only Sara that testified against you.”

“Oh, I know. Sara had more to do with our conviction because she was a CSI at the time; you were not. You were a much smaller part of everything, but it is convenient that you two are connected in more ways than one.”

“This is all fascinating,” he commended, “but still, none of it makes any sense. If all you wanted was revenge...You’ve been out of lock-up, what? Months? You know where we work. Couldn’t you just take us out via sniper or something? Why wait?” Greg squinted his eyes closed momentarily as another shoulder muscle spasmed.

“I don’t just want you two shot dead. That would be too easy, wouldn’t it?” Her voice was incredulous, as if she expected Greg to know exactly how it felt to be in her position, to want revenge desperately enough to stalk, kidnap, and torture. “It took a while to plan. There were some…setbacks. But so far, it’s all been entirely worth it.”

“And Harris is what to you? The Igor to your Frankenstein?”

“I really wish you wouldn’t talk back so much, Greg.”

A loop of thick rope dropped down in front of his face and tightened around his throat before he could react. It twisted then cranked backward, forcing him to straighten his back against the chair. Greg’s muscles screamed in protest, and he felt the cut on his throat split open again. He could still breathe, but it wouldn’t take much more pressure on the rope to hinder that. He stayed as still as possible, breathing slowly, in and out through his nose. He didn’t like the power that the woman held over him. On the verge of an anxiety attack, he bit down on his lower lip, hard, trying to refrain from putting his foot in his mouth again.

She leaned down again next to his ear, “Do you want know my favorite thing to control? A person’s air. There’s just something so…satisfying, so _erotic_ about having the ability to control another’s person’s oxygen intake. It’s hard to explain. I guess it’s easier to just show you.”

“I’d rather—” Greg’s objection was cut off when Amber jerked the rope even tighter, constricting his already strained trachea and interrupting the breath he was just beginning to draw into his lungs. He couldn’t fight back. His arms were tied and mostly asleep from lack of circulation. He attempted to lean back to relieve some of the pressure on his throat but could only go so far before being stopped by the back of the chair. Amber also leaned into him from behind as she pulled on the rope, still with her face just to the left of his head.

“You know oxygen, it’s a funny thing,” she remarked.

“Is…it?” Greg choked out. “I’ve never…found it all that…amusing.”

She gave a quick yank on the rope, and Greg again regretted not having the ability to lift his hands, to pry the rope away from him. He felt his skin tearing under the bindings around his wrists as he uselessly pulled against them. “You need to learn not to interrupt when others are talking, Greg. As I was saying…” Amber’s voice droned on as she ignored his struggles and restrained gasps. “Oxygen is simply amazing. After traveling through the nares, the trachea, to the bronchi and the bronchioles and the alveoli—which trade it into the body’s circulation and receive carbon dioxide in return.”

“I’m having…flashbacks to Physiology class…” Greg groaned. He was too weak to break the bindings around his wrists and ankles, though that didn’t stop him from trying.

Another sharp yank on the rope triggered a sharp pain and a reflexive gag.

“Do _not_ talk back to me again. What do you think happens when that exchange is blocked? The production of carbon dioxide continues, but now it has nowhere to go. With no ability to bring in fresh oxygen, and no way to release the toxic CO2…well, I’m sure you’ve heard it all from your coroner in the cases you’ve worked, right? Hypoxia, hypoxemia…not to mention any blood circulation to the brain that is interrupted by the ligature.”

Beginning to feel numb, and using his last bit of strength, Greg desperately swung his head to the left in an attempt to hit her, but Amber moved easily to avoid him and only pulled impossibly tighter on the rope. His lungs burned and he could already feel himself begin to black out. He felt disappointment in himself. He’d had training on how to deal with every situation one might encounter in the field, including hostage situations. But now that he had a chance to utilize his training, all of it left him and he was reverted to his old habit of wise-cracks.

His vision narrowed to pinpoints when Amber finally relieved most of the pressure on the rope. After an agonizing few moments when he thought his trachea could no longer expand, he was able to take in a ragged breath. He sagged forward, coughing and wheezing painfully. Amber chuckled, loosely jerking him back into a full sitting position. She used the rope like a collar and leash on a dog.

She leaned down close once again and whispered into Greg’s ear, “Don’t worry, you’ll learn to love it.” Then she bit his ear—hard. He grimaced in pain and weakly tried to twitch away, but his body suddenly felt cold and after a wave of nausea, he blissfully lost consciousness and drifted into a dreamless sleep.


	7. Dignity

_My soundtrack: “Summerland” by Coleman Hell_

* * *

“ _Sara_!”

Sara glanced up guiltily when she heard Ecklie’s shout. “I was just on my way out—”

“That’s what you told me two hours ago. Now go home and get some rest. We have the situation under control here, I promise you.”

She sighed and began to gather the files laid out on the table in front of her. After William Harris left the station, Sara had gone back to the lab and spent the entire night going through recent cases of Greg’s, both open and closed. No one tried to stop her, and DB had not assigned her to any new cases that night, so she’d not been required to leave the building during her shift. Sara had also reviewed the background check that had come in on William Harris; he had a couple of petty robberies under his belt. The crimes were not violent, and in both he acted alone.

Before interrupted by Ecklie, Sara had been scouring Greg’s recent cases, hoping to find some clue as to who might have a grudge against him. It wasn’t until she looked through files from this perspective that Sara realized how many bad guys could really be lurking out there, seeking revenge and patiently waiting for one unlucky CSI to let their guard down.

Each member of the team had experienced it in one way or another. Their profession was not an easy one in which to make friends—they frequently met good people on one of the worst days of their life.

“Can I sign out some files? Otherwise you’ll find me right back in here.”

“Fine. Deprive yourself of sleep all you want, just don’t do it here.” Despite his harsh words, Ecklie’s tone was kind. He knew that all of the awful things that the night crew went through together had linked them closely together, long ago. If one CSI found themselves in danger, no one rested until help was provided to them.

A pickup truck pulled to the curb as Sara exited the lab, and she smiled when the window rolled down and Nick waved her over. She lugged the tote of files she had borrowed over to the passenger side of the truck, and climbed in when Nick beckoned her.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” she asked as she heaved the tote between them and into the back seat.

“Shush,” Nick admonished as he shifted the truck back into drive. “Buckle up. You don’t think you’re going through those files alone, do you? I’ve got a frozen pizza back at my place with our names written all over it. I’ll take your pepperoni.”

Sara smiled at him, “Thanks. I just can’t do…nothing.”

“I know. That’s why I’m still up; I was just doing some more sniffing around at Jack’s.”

“Anything new?”

Nick sighed deeply. “Yes and no. Our friend Yvonne, Harris’s niece, was there again. She said that her uncle went back out to the desert…Which is funny, because I thought we told him not to go too far?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone didn’t take our advice,” Sara reminded him. 

“I _was_ able to talk to some patrons that recall seeing Greg that morning.”

She instantly turned from gazing out the window to Nick. “Really?”

“Yeah. This couple said they remember him sitting at the bar. They thought that he was on a date with the girl sitting next to him, because they saw her acting very ‘flirty’ with him. They also told me that Greg looked intoxicated, but only saw him drink light beers—slowly.”

Sara’s brow furrowed as she considered this new information. “Do you think he _was_ on a date?”

“Do I what? Do I think Greg was on a date?” Her voice had been quiet, and Nick thought he may have misheard. It was Nick’s turned to look puzzled; it seemed like an odd thing for Sara to question out of the what he’d told her. “I don’t know. Maybe? He hasn’t said anything to me lately about a new woman in his life. Has he said anything to you?”

Sara’s eyes returned to the window as Nick continued to navigate the vehicle to his house. “No. Nothing.”

“Huh.” There was a minute or two of tense silence before he continued: “ _But_ , at least we’ll have a better description of the girl now. The couple I talked to is willing to talk to a sketch artist.”

“That’s good.”

“Anyway, what does Grissom have to say about all of this? I’m surprised he isn’t already here, helping us look,” Nick pointed out.

“I’m not sure. I haven’t really talked to him lately,” admitted Sara, almost casually.

Nick swung his head to stare at Sara, bewildered. He knew that things had been more distant between the couple recently—it was easy to figure things like that out when you work with someone every day. His shock stemmed from the fact that Grissom would want to know that Greg was missing so that he could help. No matter how strained Sara and Gil’s relationship, Nick thought she would have told him immediately.

“Nick, _road_!” Sara yelled, pointing ahead. As Nick stopped gawking at her and swerved the truck back into the correct lane, she took a deep breath and continued. “We are getting a divorce.”

Nick balked again, but managed to keep his eyes on the road this time. “Seriously? Sara, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can—”

Sara shook her head. “No. We just need to find Greg.”

“And we will.” Nick touched her forearm lightly and offered her a reassuring smile. He looked back to the road, and there was another pause in conversation. When they pulled into his driveway, “But Sara, he can help. He’d _want_ to help.”

“I know. I’ll call him.”

* * *

“ _Hey, Greggo._ ”

Greg’s eyes sluggishly cracked open. He thought the familiar voice must have carried over from his dream. Based on the amount of light and the sweltering heat in the small room, it was probably mid-afternoon. Through his muddled thoughts, Greg estimated it had been at least two or three days that he’d been tied to this chair, although it felt like much longer. Without food or water and between the drastic shifts in temperature between night and day in the desert, his mind was understandably beginning to play tricks on him.

“ _Wake up_.”

Speaking of his mind playing tricks on him…Greg swore that was Nick’s voice. And this time, he _knew_ he was awake. He attempted to raise his head eagerly but his muscles struggled to respond. “Nick?”

“ _Jesus, Greg. You look rough_.”

“I _feel_ rough,” Greg admitted miserably. His throat felt constricted and ached when he talked. It would be easier to breathe with his neck straighter, but his head seemed to weigh a ton. “My body won’t listen to me. I can’t move.” There was some fear in Greg’s voice despite his efforts to sound strong.

“ _Well, you just gotta wake up, man_.”

“I’m awake.”

“ _If you believe that I’m actually here, Greg, you’re_ not _awake_.”

“Are you guys at least looking for me yet?” He winced as he leaned weakly against his bindings.

Nick’s voice was suddenly much closer, just over his shoulder. “ _Did you look for_ me _?_ ”

“I said, wake up!” This shout belonged to Bill Harris—or Liam, or William, depending on who you asked—not Nick, and it abruptly dragged Greg from his delusions. He wondered how long Harris had been present, listening his prisoner talk to himself. Greg groaned as he finally mustered up the strength to lift his head, which helped him breathe a bit easier. Every part of his body that he could feel hurt, but he couldn’t feel much of his arms and legs.

Harris came to Greg’s front and crouched down.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

“Shut up.” There were rustling and slicing sounds while Harris worked on something at Greg’s feet. Then stood and moved behind the chair, and the sounds resumed. Suddenly, Greg’s arms swung to his sides. His shoulders lurched forward when the tension released, and with the ropes cut and no longer holding him upright, Greg tipped forward and toppled off the chair.

He managed to turn slightly midfall so that he didn’t land flat on his face, but his right shoulder impacted the floor with a _pop_ that Greg heard but thankfully barely felt.

“Get up.”

Greg nearly laughed, but that would have been a waste of oxygen when it already felt as if he was breathing through a straw. The side of his face was pressed into the cool cement floor. It felt good, and for a moment he could almost ignore the fact that he was inhaling the dirt and other debris off the surface. Instead, he simply gazed past Harris’s boots and jeans to the doorway leading to the main part of the building. It was ajar, beckoning him to dash past Harris and escape his captivity.

“Get up, now!”

“It’s gonna take me a minute,” Greg confessed. Here he was, untied at last, and there was no way he had the strength to _crawl_ let alone run out of here.

Losing patience, Harris stooped and grabbed ahold of Greg’s shirt collar. He twisted the fabric in his hand and dragged Greg across the room to the corner containing the stench-emanating buckets. The pressure from his shirt closed off his already abused throat, and Greg struggled desperately to gain his own footing in order to relieve it. His arms and legs were taking their time regaining sensation, and by the time Harris tossed him against the buckets, Greg was still unable to support himself.

Which really was a shame since two of the buckets tipped over when he hit them and it would have been a blessing to be able to distance himself from their reeking contents. It splashed everywhere. Some drops even hit Harris, and he grumbled under his breath as he backed up somewhat and wiped an arm across his face.

Greg landed on his back, but after tasting the soupy liquid that had splashed across him, he swiftly rolled to the side and heaved. All that came up was a bit of bile since there was nothing else in his stomach, but Greg hoped that he had managed to also spit out the majority of the what landed in his mouth.

As he lay there attempting to catch his breath, Greg began to feel his arms and legs waking up. The sensation was so painful that he almost wished they were numb again. Tingling turned into painful muscle cramps. His wrists and ankles were also rubbed raw from the rope and felt like they were on fire.

All of that paled in comparison to when his right shoulder regained feeling. He writhed on the floor, biting his tongue to suppress the yells of agony. His scientific mind told him he’d likely dislocated it, but his imagination was screaming that his entire arm must have been torn from his torso.

 _Well doc, on a scale from one to ten I’m gonna have to give this a_ nein _._

Harris stood and watched Greg, who was attempting to hold his injured arm close to his body. The bar owner had a look on his face that could almost be considered pity for his captor. After a while, he made his way back to the door and stood at it like a posted guard. “You have five minutes to use the bathroom.”

Greg eyed the buckets wearily, the contents of which currently coated his already blood-soaked and grime-ridden clothing. Although the feeling was returning to his limbs more quickly now, and his bladder had felt like it was about to burst, the idea of standing still seemed like a distant dream. Would it really make any difference if he relieved himself in his current position?

But to Greg it _did_ make a difference. He had an opportunity to retain a sliver of his dignity, and he was not going to throw that away. Gritting his teeth, he rolled to his left side and shakily raised himself onto his elbow. This left him winded—but to be fair, he’d never really caught his breath. “How about ten minutes?”

“Make it three,” Harris snapped.

 _Fuck._ Greg managed to raise himself to his left hand and his knees. He tried to ignore the way his right arm dangled uselessly. Grimacing, he steadied himself against one of the fuller buckets, then raised himself slowly and painfully to his feet.

He wobbled worryingly, but Greg was standing, and he let out a celebratory cry that was likely in reality a pathetic whimper. As quickly as possible considering he only had the use of his non-dominant hand, he unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. Tried to go. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Need me to punch it out of you?”

Greg couldn’t help but jump at Harris’s suggestion. “No, just…” he glanced over his shoulder at the big man at the doorway. “Could you not stare at me?”

Harris chuckled. “You got a complex or something?”

“No! I don’t have a—” Greg cleared his throat. “I’m just not used to going with an audience.”

To Greg’s horror, Harris crossed the distance between them in a few strides and stood directly behind him, breathing down his neck. “Get used to it,” he growled.

Greg flushed. The harder he tried, the less he thought he could go.

“C’mon kid, you got an infection?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me with how long you made me wait—oh, god,” Greg had to stop talking as he finally released a stream into the bucket. He breathed a short sigh of relief.

After he’d shaken off, Harris clapped Greg hard on his bad shoulder, causing the man to crumple back to the floor in agony. “Good job. Now, undress.”

* * *

_Nevada v. Adams & Adams: Lacey Adams Testimony_

_Ten Years Ago_

Although the oldest of the two sisters, Lacey was also the smallest in stature. Everything about her was petite. Without context, most people would never guess that she was facing prison, at best, for kidnapping, torture, and murder.

“When did you first meet Thomas O’Bryan?” questioned Phelps. He’d suffered through the defense’s turn, and was eager to have a chance to show the jury what kind of a person Lacey Whitney really was.

Lacey tucked a strand of dark behind a pale ear, eyed him between nervous glances at the jury. “I think it was about four months ago?”

“It was, or you think it was?”

Her emerald eyes narrowed slightly. “It was June twenty-first of this year.”

“Well, that’s very specific. Thank you. And how would you describe your relationship with Mr. O’Bryan in the nearly two months you knew him, before his death of course.”

“We were lovers.” Lacey even managed to blush at the word.

“Interesting. So how do you explain his parents’ testimony that their son never mentioned to them that he was in a relationship?”

“Tommy didn’t want his parents to know about us. He said they would force him to break up with me.” Her eyes turned to the two people she spoke of, part of the audience just like every other day of this trial. The mother with endless tears streaming down her weary face, and the father’s face and eyes red, lips firmly pressed together, arm around his wife’s shuddering shoulders.

Phelps placed himself between the O’Bryans and Lacey Adams. “And what do you have to say about Mr. O’Bryan’s friends’ claims that he told them you two never had a relationship, and that you and your sister were, in fact, _stalking_ him?”

Lacey leaned back and gave him a sweet smile. “They lied. Tommy and I, we were in love.”

Phelps smiled back at her, just as sweetly, then retrieved a sheet of paper from a folder on the prosecution’s table. On his way, he caught Sara’s eye from where she sat discreetly at the back of the room and winked at her. One side of her mouth lifted ever so slightly in response.

“Now I have, in my hand,” he paused for effect, “a handwritten report, signed by Thomas O’Bryan as part of his attempt to get restraining orders against you and your sister. It was filed on August eighteenth—that was only _three days_ before O’Bryan was found murdered in his home.”

“That’s a lie. That charge was dropped,” Lacey spat, her smile gone.

“Actually, the charge was not dropped. There just wasn’t enough time for the complaint to be processed. Could you do me a favor and read the highlighted paragraph, out loud for the jury?”

If looks could kill, William Phelps would be flat on the floor. Lacey snatched the paper from him and briefly scanned the document before beginning to read: “Lacey and Whitney Adams have repeatedly shown up to my apartment, work, and gym, without having a reason to be there. I’ve asked them to stop following me and to leave me alone. Lacey seems to think that we’re in a relationship, even though I was never really that into her.”

“Objection,” argued the sisters’ attorney, Robert Thelen. “Is there a point behind forcing the defendant to read something that the jury has already had a chance to examine?”

The judge frowned. “As long as the prosecution gets to the point soon, it’s not against court policy to revisit evidential documents during proceedings, Mr. Thelen.”

The man nodded and sighed. 

“Please go on, Ms. Adams,” Phelps requested.

Lacey shared a glance with her sister before casting her eyes back down to the paper. “We had sex—a one-night stand—and that’s it. She tried to bring her sister into it and that was too much for me. She was really rough in bed and I’m not into that sort of thing—”

“Judge!” Thelen sprang to his feet.

Phelps smiled apologetically. “That’s alright, Ms. Adams, you can stop reading now. The statement later claims that you choked Mr. O’Bryan on two different occasions: once the first night that you slept together, as well as a week later when you and your sister cornered him in a men’s bathroom at a restaurant. Is that true?”

Lacey stared at her sister as she slowly nodded, “Yes.”


	8. The Talking Scorpion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a while, but was really fun to write. Sorry, Greg! Please kudos/review if you're out there and want more! Thanks a bunch 😊

_My soundtrack: “F**k the Pain Away” by Peaches (I know, I know. Blame Letterkenny), “Riverside” by Agnes Obel_

* * *

_“Now undress.”_

With the speed at which he turned his head to look at Harris, Greg succeeded in both nauseating himself and nearly slamming into his captor. With Harris mere inches from him, it was a close call. He hoped to see some sort of sign from the bartender that his last statement was a gag; something that was said in jest, or maybe at worst a threat. Through his slowly revolving vision however, Greg saw nothing that would indicate that the man’s words were meant as anything but a demand.

Greg turned forward once more. He closed his eyes and held his head in his hand as he tried to breathe through the dizziness and turning of his stomach. Somehow, he managed a nervous chuckle, but he stumbled over his next words. “Look, man…I-I don’t know who—”

“Do _not_ make me ask you again. You’re lucky I’ve tolerated your shit for this long,” Harris sneered. The man’s tone was even and low, but Greg flinched as if he had shouted.

Frustrated, Greg growled loudly after a short hesitation. “ _No_. You kidnap me, tie me up like an animal, torture me, starve me. I’m _not_ taking off my clothes.”

A fraction of a second passed between Greg’s last word and the blow to his back. Harris’s fist impacted just below the CSI’s ribs, and the shockwave sent him plummeting to his knees. The pure agony cut off any shout that may otherwise have been forced out. It was all he could do to remain upright, at least kneeling, as he tried to breathe, his left arm hugging his torso.

“Undress,” Harris repeated. “Unless you would like my help.”

Undeniably, Greg’s clothes were _filthy_ , and he’d be less reluctant to remove them if he knew dry clothes and a hot shower were awaiting him. But based on his captors’ treatment of him thus far, the chances of those amenities were slim to none. Oh yeah, and the intimidating, muscular goon towering just behind him didn’t help matters either.

_No, I would_ not _like your help._

The process was painful and tedious, and Greg no longer had any doubts about his shoulder being dislocated. Moving it at all was nearly impossible, and this made taking off his shirt particularly difficult. Combined with the pain that radiated up and down his spine from the most recent hit from Harris, as well as all his slightly older injuries added up and turned what should be a trivial task into one of the most physically challenging things he’d ever done.

As he carefully peeled his shirt off, Greg revealed new cuts and bruises on his torso that he had no recollection of receiving. _Shit_. The fabric stuck where the freshest cuts were present, forcing him to peel scabs and grimace as fresh blood trickled down his skin. He nearly fell numerous times in the process of removing his pants, but finally he clumsily stepped out of them along with his shoes. Garments on the floor in a pile and good arm again hugging his own torso, Greg apprehensively glanced in Harris’s direction once more.

“Leave the rest on,” Harris mumbled. ‘The rest’ being his underwear and socks; a minuscule grasp of humility that he was grateful to hang onto. Greg let out a short, ragged sigh of relief before a big hand gripped his forearm and started dragging him to a bare wall next to the buckets. At first, Greg tried to resist but the way Harris torqued his bad shoulder made every movement complete agony. He crumpled to his hands and knees when he was given one final shove just before reaching the wall. That was when he saw the thick metal chain partially obscured by dirt on the floor. Before he could react, Harris scooped up one end of the chain and looped it firmly around Greg’s throat before securing it to itself at the back of Greg’s neck with was sounded like a felt like a padlock. 

Panic arose in him again, and his hand reached to try to remove the chain. It was much too tight to slip over his head. As Harris began to walk toward the door, Greg followed the chain to where it was securely affixed to a hook welded into the wall just above the floor with yet another heady padlock. He had about five feet of freedom: not even enough to fully stand up. The pressure around his throat, although not tight enough to do any harm in his current position, still caused his breathing to hitch when the chain aggravated other injuries.

“Hey, wait,” he called weakly after Harris. Greg turned carefully and lowered himself into a seated position against the cool wall. He grimaced as his bruised back pressed and scraped along it.

Harris stopped in the doorway.

“D-do you think I could have some water?”

Harris laughed and spun to look at Greg. “That’s not my decision to make, sorry. Amber will be back tomorrow. Why don’t you ask her then?” He stepped the rest of the way out of the room and closed the door behind him. Greg let out a tearless sob as soon as he was sure he couldn’t be heard. He cradled his bad arm in his good and his nostrils flared as he breathed in and out in quick, panicked huffs.

His mouth and throat were dry, and his stomach churned from both nausea and hunger. His shoulder throbbed and he felt himself grow increasingly faint. His eyelids drifted shut and he leaned his head back against the rough surface of the wall.

_“Hey, Einstein.”_

It was Nick again. Greg didn’t even try to open his eyes. He knew Nick wasn’t actually there. “Hey,” he croaked in return.

There was a pause, then Nick continued. _“Remember that time that I taught you—”_

“How to set my own shoulder? Yeah. I was just thinking about that.”

_“You said you’d never need that bit of information, and now look at you.”_

“I _still_ don’t need that bit of information.” He finally opened his eyes, and realized that the room was darker than it had been. Had he fallen asleep? Somehow, he’d managed to remain propped against the wall. A small movement caught his attention on the floor directly in front of him: that damn scorpion. Although the arachnid did not run for cover this time; its body faced him, tail with stinger raised and pointed in Greg’s direction.

_“What are you saying?”_

Greg was only slightly confused when Nick’s voice seemed to be coming from the scorpion. Considering this was a dream or a hallucination, could he really expect his mind to come up with anything _normal_?

_“You’re not going to fix it?”_ Scorpion-Nick asked, bringing Greg’s mind back to the conversation.

“That’s right! I’m going to wait. Wait, and let a medical professional do it! Because with my luck I’d end up pinching one of my arteries and severing it. I’d bleed out internally and not even know what happened.” Greg winced at the thought.

Scorpion-Nick chuckled. _“You know the chances of that actually happening? C’mon, man, you don’t know how long it’s going to take us to find you. It’s damn likely that you’re going to need to use your arm—especially your dominant arm.”_

Greg nodded reluctantly.

_“Good. Want me to talk you through it again?”_

Another nod.

_“Okay, here we go. Take some deep breaths.”_

Somehow, Greg managed to slow his breathing and do as Scorpion-Nick instructed.

_“Good. Take your left hand and grip your right forearm. That’s right, as tight as you can. Now slowly lift and extend your arms out in front of you, putting steady pressure on your bad arm.”_

Nodding once more, Greg grit his teeth and followed the directions. He groaned and held his breath as he pulled his dislocated arm straight in front of him. The feeling was excruciating, and Greg imagined the displaced bones grinding muscle and stretching tissues that had already begun to contract. His vision swiftly darkened around the edges.

_“Stay with me, buddy. Don’t pass out now. Breathe through it.”_

Greg let out a shuddering breath. “Okay.”

_“Keep firm pressure on that arm until it pops back into place. Don’t let up until you feel that pop. You’ll know.”_

“Okay,” Greg repeated. He renewed his pull on his right arm and his muscles shook from the effort.

_“You’ve got this, keep going. Don’t let up.”_

With one final pained growl and pull, Greg heard and felt a _pop_ that reverberated up and down his right shoulder and side. He collapsed to the left, holding his arm tightly to himself. “I think I did it, Nick.”

With his face now at floor level, Greg could stare straight at the scorpion. He waited as long as he could before succumbing to the dark; waited to hear one last reassurance and bit of hope from Nick. But Nick…or Greg’s projection of Nick, was now silent. The scorpion scurried off into the cracked wall, and finally Greg allowed his eyes to drift shut as his labored breaths blew puffs into the dust on the floor.

* * *

Nick awoke from his nightmare with a gasp and sat straight up in his chair. The sudden motion and noise prompted Sara to start and glance up quickly. Nick’s head had been resting against his crossed arms on the breakroom table. He and Sara were going through case files and he must have dozed off.

“You okay?” Sara questioned from across the table. Her legs rested across a second chair as she paused in her scanning of the file currently in her hand.

The man wiped a hand across the side of his face after he realized he’d been drooling. “Uh, yeah. I think so. Just a…bad dream.”

“After you passed out, I managed to snooze for a few minutes too. I think there’s still a faceprint over here on the table. I, uh…” Sara sniffed and set the file down onto the table, leaving it open to save her spot. “I had a dream that Greg was drowning. I couldn’t save him, Nick.”

Nick sighed. “Same type of premise as mine. Only, he wasn’t drowning, he was…burning. But Sara, no one could have seen this coming. All we can do is work hard to find Greg. We can’t blame ourselves.”

“Maybe you can’t,” Sara muttered quietly.

“What do you mean by that?”

She eyed her good friend for a minute, wondering if she should even disclose information like this and involve herself in the case even more so. Either way, Nick was her friend, and she needed to get this blame off her chest. She knew it was likely an unnecessary guilt, but it weighed on her nonetheless. “The day before Greg disappeared, we spent time together at my place.”

Nick raised one eyebrow but remained quiet, waiting for her to go on.

“He told me he loves me,” Sara admitted, now refusing to meet his eyes.

“What?” Nick gaped at her. He’d known about Greg’s feelings for Sara, and not only because of Greg’s drunken confession to Nick that night ages ago. Anyone could see it by just watching the two interact. Greg had become more skilled at hiding it over the years, but to Nick the feelings were still obvious.

“Is it that much of a surprise?”

“That he loves you? No, not at all. I’m just shocked that he finally told you.”

“I may have…” Sara paused, searching for the right words. She couldn’t find a way to explain it without making herself sound like a terrible person. “I may have led him on some. We kissed that morning.”

Nick’s jaw dropped, “On the cheek, you mean?”

“Um, no.” Sara was blushing, and turned to look at the muted television hanging on the wall. Not that she was interested in its contents, but she just couldn’t face Nick’s judgement yet.

Nick’s phone went off, and he glanced down to see a text from Ecklie. Basically, it warned them both to leave and go home. Classic of Ecklie—to send a text when his office was yards from the room the two occupied. He chuckled and stood, first laying a supportive hand on Sara’s shoulder then beginning to gather the files. “Come on, boss says we don’t have to go home but we can’t stay here. Let’s do this somewhere else. We can talk more there.”

Sara nodded appreciatively. They finished sorting the files together and left the lab, both intent on not resting until they found some sort of lead in Greg’s case.

* * *

_He was twelve years old again, floating on his back in Papa and Nana Olaf’s pool. He held his breath because otherwise he’d sink. Greg came here often after school under the pretense that Papa Olaf was helping him study, and his parents weren’t out of work until after six, anyway. Papa thought that he was studying with Nana on the porch as she sat crocheting. Nana believed that he studied at home with his mother after dinner._

_So here he was suspended on the water, feeling light as a feather, enjoying the cool lapping against his sides and the hot rays of the California sun on his chest. Studying was the last thing on his mind. It bored him. He aced everything whether he studied or not, so why waste time? The whole façade was really in the best interest of everybody. Greg stayed on the honor rolls, so his family stayed off his back. Win, win._

_A force suddenly dragged him under the surface. It was freezing…but that couldn’t be right because Papa Olaf’s pool was strictly regulated at a toasty 83 degrees. It felt refreshing during the triple degree heat waves of California, but never ice cold like this. There was a weight on top of his chest and stomach. The air he still had in his lungs was slowly being pressed from him._

Greg opened his eyes and it fully set in that he wasn’t twelve anymore. This was not his grandparent’s pool in California; in fact, that house burned down in ‘91. Under the red-tinted water, he could make out rippling shapes above him. He glanced left, right: a porcelain casket. Greg’s arms were still untied, and the chain collar no longer around his neck. Becoming fully awake along with the sudden realization of this relative freedom prompted him to fight.

Greg grasped in front of himself with both hands and felt two large arms holding him down, one palm on his upper chest and another on his abdomen. He punched and scratched what he could reach. The arms only pressed down harder, forcing the last bit of air in his lungs out through his nose. His experience, acquired during his surfing days, told him to hold his breath at all costs because inhaling water wasn’t a feeling that a person wants to experience more than once.

He kicked his legs, tried to grip onto the smooth surfaces around him with uncoordinated hands but nothing would stop the force that was holding him under. The chill was already numbing him. Just when Greg thought he was going to pass out and risk his body instinctively take in lungsful of cold water, the pressure on him relented.

Greg sat straight up, sending water splashing over the sides of the bathtub. He gasped, gulped in too much air and aggravated his airway. Coughs wracked his body and Greg clung to one side of the tub, leaned over it as he began to tremble violently. He wiped the water from his eyes and there was Amber, kneeling next to him. Harris, soaking wet, was standing just behind her. She reached out a hand, stroked his cheek. Greg shied away but she caught him by the chin and forced him back.

“Shh, Greg. It had to happen like this; you were filthy.”

“Y-you couldn’t s-spare any warm water?”

Amber smiled. “You still haven’t learned, have you? Liam? I think we missed a spot,” she gestured at Greg before standing and backing up slightly. Her place was soon occupied by Harris.

Greg barely had time to utter “no” and inhale a minute amount of precious air before the large man put a hand over his nose and mouth and dunked him back under the water. Greg tried to cling to the side of the tub but his hands slipped. He thrashed and clawed, but Harris held him firmly.

After a little over a minute, Amber finally ordered Harris to let Greg up. The pressure was abruptly relieved from him again, and Greg lunged upward. He misjudged the distance this time and inhaled a moment too early—just before he broke the surface of the water. The liquid gushed down his trachea, and once he was above the water he choked, unable to draw in very much air on top of the water he’d inhaled.

Almost instantly, Amber and Harris exchanged another look and Greg was plunged once more under the surface. This time, he was still choking and had no oxygen reserves and began to panic immediately. Harris’s hand worked its way onto Greg’s face again and the younger man dug his fingers as deeply into his captor’s flesh as he could. He heard a muffled grunt but the hold did not relent.

Harris’s other hand encircled Greg’s neck, his palm pushing against his collarbone. Greg convulsed from pain and the need for air. Finally, he grabbed at the hand over his face, gripped onto it, bared his teeth, and bit down hard.

Water and blood poured into his throat, but still he didn’t let go. He heard a muffled shout above him and the hand tried to pull away, but Greg still clung to it. This resulted in him being pulled upward as Harris retracted his arm. Once he was above water, he let go of his hold on Harris, who continued to yell a colorful array of curses as he backed away from the bathtub with his heavily bleeding palm cradled close. Greg used his last bit of strength to pull and launch himself out of the water and over the side of the tub.

He landed hard on his back, and although it hurt like hell, the blow also helped to knock some of the water from his lungs. It bubbled over his lips before he rolled onto his side and then stomach and weakly propped himself on his forearms, coughing up a substantial amount of water—and blood. Greg hoped it was only Harris’s blood, but didn’t have much time to ponder the thought before a boot plunged into his side. The impact slammed him into the side of the bathtub. The floor was slippery, and Greg tried to crawl away but every movement was anguish and there was a half inch of water covering the already slippery stone tiling of the small bathroom.

“Son of a _bitch_!” Harris exclaimed as he kicked Greg a second time.

“Enough,” Amber placed a palm on Harris’s chest. He halted his attack on Greg but still swore and held his aching hand. Amber then knelt again next to Greg. She didn’t seem to mind the standing water on the floor from Greg’s struggles. She placed a soft, warm hand on his trembling shoulder, watched his back heave and listened to his frantic wheezes and gasps. “That wasn’t very nice of you. Biting the hand that feeds you.”

Greg felt her touch, heard her words, wanted to shrug her away. But he couldn’t seem to make his body do anything besides suck in air. His shudders worsened when her fingers trailed their way from his shoulder to the nape of his neck and up through his soaking hair where she grabbed a handful and pulled upward. Amber’s other hand traveled under his chin and firmly forced him to look at her.

He was still choking and occasionally spitting out additional water and blood. She smiled as some dribbled down his chin and onto her hand, then leaned in closer and met his eyes. “Oh, Greg. I’m so happy you let me do this for you.”

The way that Amber was twisting his neck made it impossible for Greg to breathe. He weakly grasped at her wrist, but this only make her smile wider. She finally let go of his hair, and his head dropped to the floor.

She stood and watched him for what felt like a lifetime before speaking again. “I feel that we’ve made some good progress today, Greg.” On her way out of the room, Amber looked to Harris. “Put him away for me, will you?”

Harris grinned and began to advance on Greg, fists clenched.

“Nicely!” Amber reminded sharply over her shoulder.

The next thing Greg knew, he was being dragged back toward his dungeon. He hadn’t even known there was a bathroom here too, but it made sense. Amber and Harris clearly spent a lot of time here. He had a brief glimpse of the front door of the warehouse… _freedom_ …and then Harris pulled him into the room with the blood and the buckets and the _smell_ and tossed him to the floor. The chain was hastily re-secured around his throat. It seemed tighter this time. The nearly broken man didn’t struggle. Harris kicked dust from the floor into Greg’s face before leaving.

Greg’s eyes turned to the crack in the wall: Scorpion-Nick’s home. He thought he saw a tiny set of eyes reflecting back at him. He vaguely heard Nick’s laugh. _It really is humorous, after all_ , Greg relented. He had plans to ask Amber for water when he next saw her, and turns out he didn’t even have to ask. She’d given him all the water he could ever need, but somehow Greg was still thirsty.


	9. Reinforcements

_My soundtrack: “Bloodlet” by Munroe, “Black Sun” by Death Cab for Cutie_

* * *

“Guys!”

Both Sara and Nick jumped in surprise when Hodges snuck up behind them and shouted. They had arrived for their shifts early—four hours early to be exact. She and Nick had little luck hunting down leads after leaving that morning, so after grabbing and snack and failing to get some sleep, they’d both come in early to access the lab’s computers and databases. The two were currently reviewing the surveillance footage from the tavern.

They stared blankly at the sheets of paper that Hodges placed in front of them. Neither were exactly functioning in peak condition lately; their concern for Greg kept them both from sleeping and eating properly.

“The fingernail! The one you found at the bar?” he clarified impatiently.

Nick picked up the top sheet and quickly scanned it. “So, it contained Greg’s DNA plus an unknown?”

“Yes. It looks like it was _his_ fingernail that was torn. The concentration of unknown male DNA was focused under the tip of end the nail, which means _it_ likely belonged to someone that Greg scratched.” Hodges was excited but the investigators couldn’t quite understand why.

Sara felt ill. For as long as she knew him, Greg was always an anti-violence type of guy. After all he’d been through and witnessed, he remained uneasy to carry his gun. Greg by now that the weapons that law enforcement carried for the public’s and their own protection could just as easily become weapons utilized against them. Sara could count on one hand the times she had witnessed the man worked up enough to become violent. Greg was one of the most passive people she knew; if he was forced to scratch someone, it was most certainly in self-defense.

Setting the paper back down, Nick sighed. “That’s great, but it doesn’t get us any closer to finding Greg. The other sample is unknown, and Harris’s DNA isn’t in the system to compare.”

“Why isn’t his DNA in the system? I thought he had a record,” Sara asked.

Nick shook his head. “Back when Harris committed his other crimes, a person’s DNA wasn’t routinely taken unless they were suspects in bigger cases.”

“But I think it _does_ help,” Hodges argued, not having moved past Nick’s earlier statement. “It proves there was a struggle. And when has it mattered in the past that we don’t have DNA on someone? Can’t you just grab something that he throws away? A cup, a cigarette butt?”

“And if we can get his profile and match the unknown to the bar owner, that should be enough to search his house, keep him in custody and get some answers from him.” Nick finished. “To the tavern?”

Sara and Nick exchanged a glance.

“Harris hasn’t been at the tavern since we had him come in for questioning,” Sara reminded them. “We should sit on it, park somewhere and watch the place for a while. Maybe we’ll see that woman from the video, too.”

Nick nodded. He and Sara began to tidy up the items they’d borrowed from evidence, and Nick handed the results printout back to Hodges.

“You’re welcome,” Hodges shouted after them as they left the room.

Sara and Nick were just about to exit the crime lab and head over to the Jack’s when her cellphone began to ring. She pulled it from her pocket and glanced to the LED screen, expecting DB or maybe even Grissom trying to get ahold of her. She froze, her thumb hovering over the ‘answer’ button, and stared at the word that flashed across the screen: restricted

Sara didn’t get spam calls on her work cellphone. Only her coworkers and superiors had this number, and it was a private, government-issued line. She glanced at Nick, and he immediately realized something was wrong from the look in his friend’s eyes.

“What is it?” He was almost afraid to ask. They’d all been secretly wondering when and to whom a ransom call would come.

“Follow me,” Sara turned on her heel and took off for the AV lab, Nick close behind. She accepted the call and brought it to her ear, waiting for the caller to speak first.

“ _Hi there, Sara_.” The voice was feminine, with an accent that obviously originated in or near New York. It was slightly familiar to Sara, but she couldn’t dredge up which distant memory she may have known it from.

“Who is this?”

“ _I think you know_. _Even if you don’t remember my name, you’ve at least got to have an idea of what I’m calling you about._ ”

Sara struggled to remain calm. Her initial suspicion that this call was somehow related to Greg’s disappearance was looking more and more accurate. Archie—who had also been working overtime to help find Greg—glanced up as she and Nick abruptly burst into his lab. Sara held a finger up to her lips and Nick whispered “trace”.

“How did you get this number?” Sara questioned the caller while Archie jumped into action and plugged a long data cable into the bottom of her cellphone. The other end was connected to one of his computers. The AV tech began pulling up windows on his screen and typing vigorously.

“ _You’re_ numero uno _on Greg’s contact list. Does that surprise you?_ ”

Sara suddenly had a hard time remembering how to breathe. “You…you have Greg’s phone.”

“ _I’ll do you one better on that_.”

“Is he alive?”

A pause, then: “ _His mind or his body?_ ”

“Well, that’s comforting,” Sara let the sarcasm slip, and the woman laughed lightly.

“ _That’s one thing you and he have in common. Neither of you know when to shut up_.”

As she watched several error messages pop up on Archie’s screen, Sara realized she needed to keep this person on the phone for a while longer. She had a sinking feeling that the call might not get them the answers they needed, and she’d be stuck simply waiting again. Greg had been missing for more than 72 hours. She just wanted to know that he was okay, and how to get him back. “What do you want from us?”

“ _When this all started, I wanted revenge. And_ you _, Sara…you just happened to be the first person to testify against us. Why not go chronologically, right?_ ”

Sara sighed. Frustrated tears welled in her eyes, but she wiped them away before anybody noticed. Of course, this was about a case…but which case? The caller said ‘us’ which told her there must have been multiple people involved. Unfortunately, this only slightly narrowed down a laundry list of possible suspects.

_Meanwhile, 50 miles away, Amber held the phone to her ear and grinned. She stood over her unconscious captive, relishing the sight of the trembling man curled into a fetal position against the wall. She had ordered Liam to leave Greg’s legs and arms unbound; he understandably had little fight left in him after his bath. A chain padlocked about his throat was proving plenty effective at keeping him confined._

_“_ But now? _” Sara asked from the other end of the conversation. The CSI was surprisingly good at holding herself together under pressure…if she indeed felt concern at all for Greg._

 _Amber was sure that the woman was surrounded by people attempting to trace the call as they spoke. She’d adjusted the satellite phone to ensure that would not be possible, so she felt comfortable taking her time with the call. Taunting Sara gave her extreme satisfaction; almost as much satisfaction as controlling whether Greg lived or died. “But now…now that I’ve spent some time with the guy, I’m thinking that I’d rather just have_ him _.”_

 _There was a pause, then: “_ Why Greg? _”_

_“You two seem to have an amazing…friendship, Sara. You’ve worked together for a very long time. In addition, you spend an impressive amount of time with him outside of work. It was impossible to ignore.” Amber hoped that the whole police department and crime lab could hear her now. “Greg was also involved in my case, although minimally, but that’s really only a bonus at this point.”_

_Sara sighed audibly. “_ Is it money you want? If it is, I’ll just make some calls, and— _”_

_Amber laughed. “Money? If this was about money, why would I call your cellphone? God knows you don’t have much money, and the lab isn’t allowed to negotiate, is it?”_

_“_ What about an exchange? _” Sara suddenly implored. “_ Myself for Greg. No tricks _.”_

Back at the lab, Nick smacked Sara lightly on the arm in protest to her offer.

“ _No deal. There’s no way the cops would let you do that. And like I said, I’m enjoying myself with Greg alone_.”

Sara was silent in response as she observed Archie still typing madly at the keyboard. She didn’t know how to get answers from the woman. A small crowd had gathered outside the room, peering through the doorway. They were apparently drawn by the sudden buzz of activity. The group, which consisted of several day-shift lab rats, Ecklie, and Brass, was silent as they listened to what they could of Sara’s conversation.

“You haven’t given any orders. How can we get Greg back?”

“ _Just plan on getting another call from me in a few days. I have more important things to do right now. In the meantime, Sara, I want you to experience the frustration of not being able to find Greg. Think about what I might be doing to him. And I want you to think, really_ think _about how this is all your fault_. _You should have minded your own business. You’ve made an entire career destroying peoples’ lives. I’m just lucky all those others saved you for me._ ”

“I want proof that Greg is alive,” Sara demanded.

 _Amber shoved Greg in the shoulder with her shoe. He still did not wake up._ “ _I can send you proof once we hang up. He doesn’t feel like talking right now._ ”

Before Sara could respond to that, Greg’s kidnapper had terminated the call.

_After disconnecting the call, Amber knelt and ran a hand along Greg’s bruised side. His body instinctively twitched away from the touch and he whimpered quietly but did not regain consciousness. She observed his pale skin, his gaunt features, and the way the man’s ribs were beginning to show more easily. Continuing to stroke Greg’s side and shoulder with one hand, she pulled out a digital camera from her pocket and scrolled through its stored images._

_Amber thought of herself as a somewhat successful photographer. In photography, a person didn’t have to make money to be successful; all they had to do was bring_ themselves _pleasure. And that, Amber did. She smiled as she glanced through the hundreds of snapshots she’d captured in the past few days with Greg. So many good memories, captured and forever stored in digital format for her reviewing needs._

_Once more, she looked to Greg in his current state and shook her head. If she sent a picture of the guy to Sara like this, she wouldn’t believe he was alive. Finally, Amber chose a photo she’d taken not long after they’d first brought Greg to the warehouse. At least he was conscious in it. She used the satellite phone to take a picture of the camera’s screen, and sent it to Sara’s number._

_Returning the two devices to her pocket, she traded them for a much sharper item. Amber casually carved a shallow slice down the length of Greg’s forearm. He still didn’t wake up. She continued to draw on his flesh, cautious to not press too hard. The guy couldn’t survive much more blood loss._

After losing their connection, Sara nearly yelled in frustration. Somehow, she managed to keep it together and instead gripped the phone in one shaking hand, staring at it as if it had the answers she needed. “Please tell me you’ve got something.”

Archie didn’t look away from the monitors as he continued to work with his software at additional attempts to pinpoint the caller’s location. “I’m sorry, Sara. I have a couple more tricks I can try but they’ll take a while. This person has lots of experience disguising the location of their calls.”

Nodding and biting her lip, Sara placed the phone onto a desk near Archie’s workspace and turned to the small group behind her. They were still watching her quietly and waiting on answers. Catherine, Hodges, and Morgan had joined Brass and Ecklie at the doorway, and Nick still stood anxiously beside her. The dayshift lab techs had meandered away, probably ushered out by Catherine, although they continued to lurk in the hallway near their individual areas and gossiped amongst each other.

“That woman I just spoke to—she knows where Greg is,” she told the group. This information was not a surprise; they’d known what this was as soon as they heard Sara on her phone.

“So, we finally have a ransom demand for Greg?” Catherine asked hopefully.

“Not quite. She didn’t give me anything useful.”

“Um, Sara?” Archie’s nervous voice drew her attention.

“What is it?”

“Your cellphone just received an image file from the same number.”

She grabbed the offered phone and accepted the message. When it loaded, Sara all but collapsed onto the nearest chair.

“What is it, Sara?” Nick asked as he and the others tried catch a glimpse of her screen.

Sara only rubbed a hand down her face and handed the phone off to Nick.

It was a head-on shot of Greg, and it _was_ Greg, although anyone who knew him would be hesitant to admit that fact due to his condition. The younger man was sitting, clearly tied to a chair. His clothes appeared filthy and were torn in several places. Blood streamed from injuries on his forehead, cheek, lips, and scariest of all his neck. His hands were pulled behind him. Squinting, he peered up at the photographer as if they said something to get his attention just as the flash went off.

The look on his face alone was enough to break the heart of any friend of Greg. He was obviously hurt and needed medical attention as soon as possible, but there lingered a flicker of light and rebellion in his deep brown eyes. Morgan and Catherine began to cry as soon as she laid eyes on it. The men of the group sighed and looked to each other, wondering where to go next.

Sara—once she had taken some time to regain her composure—uploaded the photo from her phone to a computer in the lab. The previous plan to keep watch at the tavern was commandeered by some of Brass’s men. More uniformed officers were sent to Harris’s last known address to try to locate him. She and Nick continued to work together: they huddled around the larger screen to closer examine the photo, while the rest of the team gathered in a different room to listen for any background sounds in the recorded phone call that might clue them in to where it came from.

The image’s lighting was poor. The camera’s flash created deep shadows in the background. A stained concrete wall could be glimpsed at the edges of the photo, but no details that could identify where _this_ stained wall stood.

“Those are the clothes he was wearing when he left work Tuesday morning,” Nick noticed.

Sara frowned. “He’s hurt bad, Nick. How much longer could he make it like this?”

Nick, who sat close to Sara, reached an arm around her. “Greg’s tough. We’ll find him soon and he’ll be alright.” He then leaned even closer to her and when he spoke again Nick’s voice was hushed. “If you haven’t called Grissom yet, I think now might be the time.”

She turned to stare at him, knowing he was right. As much as she didn’t want to bring Grissom into this, she needed to think of Greg’s best odds right now. Having Grissom on their side was a trick up their sleeve that the team couldn’t afford _not_ to play.

* * *

The rattling of chains and slamming of a door once again lured Greg from a light sleep. At first, he hoped that help had finally arrived and peeked only through slits in his eyelids. When he saw Harris and Amber standing just inside the door, Greg slowly sat up. Every muscle in his body protested the movement and he groaned in pain. He sagged weakly against the concrete, exhausted from only that small effort. His heavy breaths turned into a coughing fit when the weight of the chain pulled against his throat. Greg realized he was bleeding from wounds he didn’t remember receiving when he raised a hand to pull the chain from the front of his neck.

Harris carried a lantern. The room was dark again, and Greg wondered how long he’d been out. The ground around him was damp and he was freezing. His captors watched and waited for Greg to stop coughing, then Amber finally spoke up.

“Get him up for me, Liam.”

When Harris crossed the distance between them, Greg instinctively cowered again the wall, raising a hand to ward off any blows. Instead of hitting him however, Harris gripped the chain, unlocking it from near the floor and using it to drag Greg to his feet. He choked and gripped the chain with both hands. “Stop, no!” he grunted.

Harris reached higher, securing the end of the chain to a different hook, so high on the wall that Greg hadn’t noticed it earlier. The only way Greg had some slack on the chain was if he stood up completely straight, and his back, shoulders, and leg muscles were already burning from the strain.

Being short of breath was a near-constant for Greg these past few days, but since his experience in the bathtub his lung capacity was especially diminished. It felt like he still had water in them. His throat burned and felt more and more swollen. Every inhale and exhale were accompanied by a shallow wheeze.

Greg watched warily as Amber approached and placed her hands on each side of his face. “Leave me alone,” he warned.

She only smiled at him and ran her thumbs along his cheek bones.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” insisted Greg. His whole body trembled and his voice cracked, making it difficult to appear or sound threatening. His statement was met by mocking laugher from both kidnappers.

“Oh, honey. I don’t know whether to love or loathe your self-confidence. The fact that it’s still intact after three days here is both invigorating and frustrating…but I’ll always welcome a challenge.” Her hands suddenly traveled downward, began to explore the contours of his neck and the chain encircling it.

This touch activated renewed panic in Greg; he just _knew_ that she would wrap her hands around his neck and limit his breathing even more. If she did that, he might pass out.

 _And if I pass out, I’m dead_.

He lashed out with both arms and shoved her away roughly. Amber stumbled backwards but managed to stay on her feet.

“Cuffs.” The word was directed at Harris but Amber’s eyes never left her prisoner.

Greg fought as much as he could when Harris approached him again, this time pulling a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket. He was easily overpowered by the bar owner, who brought both of Greg’s arms behind his back and pulled downwards on his hands. Gagging, the prisoner stopped struggling and the cuffs were cinched tightly around his wrists. Before Greg realized what was happening, Harris had already pulled the previously unnoticed duct tape from his belt, ripped a strip off the roll, and slapped it over Greg’s mouth. Once he had ensured that the tape was pressed down firmly, he stepped back as if to admire his own work.

Meanwhile, Amber slipped something from her back pocket and tossed it between her hands a few times. “Leave,” she ordered Harris, who quickly complied but left the door open a few inches behind him. It wasn’t until she pulled the object from its leather sheath that Greg realized its identity: a small paring knife. The blade was less than four inches long but appeared well used and sharpened.

Greg’s vision had darkened to the point of nearly passing out, but somehow he avoided unconsciousness for the time being. The tape further hindered his oxygen intake; he was just barely getting enough air through his nose to remain standing. Amber neared him once more and placed one palm in the middle of his chest, directly over his racing heart. The woman’s smile was gone. The knife handle rested loosely in the grip of her hand. Greg failed to hide the tremors that shook his body. Nonetheless, he stood as straight as possible and stared defiantly at Amber.

“I did not want to have to resort to the tape, you know. I warned you several times and you just didn’t listen. But don’t worry, I’m sure we can take it off again sometime soon. Along with the cuffs. Before you know it, you’ll stop fighting and start begging me for more.”

“D-doubt…that…” panted Greg.

Amber brought the knife to his chest and slowly dragged the blade in a shallow line across the flesh there. Blood trickled down and Greg cried out weakly in pain, but the sound was muffled by the tape.

She created a matching cut on the opposite side of his chest, but he didn’t cry out this time. He found that the pain was less intense now, almost tolerable. The third cut, which slashed across his abdomen, also barely earned a reaction from him.

Amber sensed that the man was about to pass out, and she got in close to him, watched in satisfaction as his eyes rolled upward and his body went limp. His already shallow breaths were cut off when his weight dropped onto the chain. She observed Greg for over a minute; his unconscious body reflexively struggled for air. Finally, Amber called Harris into the room to lower Greg to the ground.

* * *

“Sara? What’s wrong?” Grissom answered Sara’s call from over four thousand miles away.

She almost argued with him, but he wasn’t wrong. She supposed at this point she would _have_ to have bad news in order to contact him.

“Gil, Greg’s gone. I don’t know how to find him.”

“Did you ever think that maybe he doesn’t want to be found?”

Sara scoffed. Classic of Grissom to respond with a vague and rhetorical question. “Does that sound like Greg to you?”

A pause, then: “No.”

Sara was quiet but, in her mind she was trying not to scream. She paced her living room, both deep in thought and unable to concentrate. D.B. made her and Nick go home early from their shift and promised to keep them updated if they stayed away from the lab for a few hours and got some rest.

“How long has he been gone?” Grissom asked after another moment.

“Three days.”

“Three days? So right around when we last spoke?”

She sighed. “Stop making this about us—”

“I’m simply asking if there may be a correlation.”

“I don’t think so. I mean…maybe. That morning, Greg told me that he loved me, and I freaked. I blew him off. After I woke up that day, I felt awful and saw that he had called me and left a voicemail; he wanted to see me. That’s when I called you and…” Sara stopped pacing, suddenly feeling light-headed. “I tried calling him after I talked to you that day and I couldn’t reach him. Gil, I keep thinking that if I hadn’t treated him so badly, he wouldn’t have ended up in trouble. Nick and I found his car, still in the parking garage. We have evidence that he was involved in a struggle in the parking lot of the bar where he was last seen. Not to mention the surveillance video that we have showing him being led out of the bar by the bartender and an unknown woman. He looked like he was drugged.”

She rubbed her forehead with her free hand, squeezing her eyes tightly closed. “Earlier today, I got a call from a woman saying she had Greg. I was hoping to get some sort of information or demands from her, but she gave me nothing. Archie can’t trace it. She told me some things that tell me this is about a case that both Greg and I worked on. She said she’d call back in a few days. After that, I was sent a picture of Greg, hurt…Gil, he needs our help, and I don’t know how to find him.”

Grissom sighed. “I can be there early this afternoon. In the meantime, Sara, be careful. This woman sounds extremely unstable, and we don’t want to push her too far. You should stay with someone, and don’t go out alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 😊


	10. Senses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old friend joins the search for Greg. More illusions and delusions mess with Greg's mind as he fights to survive more games with his captor.

_My soundtrack: “Waiting” by Norah Jones, “Satin in a Coffin” by Modest Mouse_

* * *

After flying back to Las Vegas, Gil Grissom picked up his rental car and drove straight to the crime lab. Navigating the bustling city streets brought both pleasant and unpleasant memories back, but mostly a bittersweet sensation of love and loss. It was just after two in the afternoon, so he didn’t know how many familiar people he would find at his old workplace, but he needed to talk to Ecklie and make sure they were using every available resource for Greg’s investigation. He checked in at the front desk and then began to retrace the old route through the maze-like halls.

“Grissom!” a familiar voice came from a doorway just behind him.

“Hello, Hodges.”

“Glad to see you’re back in town! We should catch up!” the trace analyst gushed.

“Maybe. Currently, I’m more focused on finding Greg.”

“Right, of course.”

Grissom gave the man a small smile before turning to go on his way.

“You’re going the wrong way!” Hodges called out to him before he could get far. “Everyone’s in conference room B going over evidence. I thought Sara was going to call you to let you know?”

“Thank you.” Grissom turned left at the next hallway while nonchalantly pulling his phone from his pocket and powering it back up. There were two missed calls and three text messages from Sara. Grissom sighed at his absentmindedness and speculated how mad Sara would be at him. And it would be for good reason, as usual. He finally arrived at the conference room and rapped his knuckles quietly on the door before letting himself inside.

When he entered, Grissom was greeted by the entire day shift, as well as all his old friends from the night shift. There were lots of new faces, and some faces missing. A projector screen was lowered at the back of the room and Greg’s ‘mugshot’ as the kid called it (the picture he’d had to take for his ID badge) glowed in the corner, along with the text ‘still missing’. The situation was becoming real, and Grissom rubbed the back of his neck as he stared and the image. Captain Brass, who was currently at the podium near the screen, abruptly stopped speaking when he saw who had joined them.

Everyone’s reaction at seeing their original boss was a mixture between elation and sadness, because although seeing their mentor for the first time in a long time, it was under unfortunate terms. Greg’s absence weighed on everyone’s shoulders, especially the night shift. Catherine and Nick hugged Grissom. Everyone else shook his hand.

Sara stood back, watching the greetings from a safe distance. She’d tried to get ahold of him earlier to let him know about the impromptu meeting, but he hadn’t answered. Sara had wondered if he was going to make it after all, or if he was going to stand her up again just like so many times before. Now that he was here, she was too worried about Greg to be angry. Their eyes met momentarily, and Grissom smiled kindly at her. The corner of her mouth twitched upward in reply. Catherine was near tears after their rushed greetings as she pulled up a chair next to her own for Grissom.

Soon everyone had quieted down after promising to fully catch him up after the meeting, and Brass once more took the stage to continue where he left off in the police station’s report on the investigation.

“My guys have been sitting on both the tavern and Harris’s personal residence since Friday evening. There’s been no sign of Harris. His family, friends, and employees all still deny seeing him since he came in to the station for questioning. The only person who continues to be somewhat cooperative is Harris’s niece, Yvonne. She says that sometimes her uncle disappears for days ‘into the desert’, but has no idea where he goes. According to his records, he doesn’t own property or buildings. He leases and manages the tavern; barely makes enough to cover his own rent. The house in the city where he stays in the city is in his mother’s name.

“After a _lot_ of questioning, Yvonne also broke down and told us that her uncle has been hanging out with a frequent patron at Jack’s: a blonde named Amber. She doesn’t know a last name, or where this ‘Amber’ stays. I’ve also had my guys keeping an eye out for a blonde matching the description of the woman on the video from Greg’s abduction. No luck there, either; but then again we don’t have much in the way of a detailed description.”

“Do we know anything else about Harris’s personal life, family or friends?” Grissom questioned when there was a pause.

“Just what Yvonne and Harris’s mother said. His mother of course believes he’s an angel. He still lives with her, go figure, and has no known children,” Sara listed. She sat almost directly across from Grissom, sandwiched between Nick and Morgan. “Aged forty-three, at least one brother: Yvonne’s father, lives in Illinois. His other employees and mother all say that outside of the bar, he rarely socializes with anyone. He seems to prefer to be alone. So Yvonne has been the only one that mentioned a blonde at all.”

“How many other employees?” D.B. inquired.

This time Nick answered. “Three employees besides his niece. They’re all accounted for, and besides that they don’t match the description.”

“Even with a wig?” asked Catherine.

“Even with a wig,” Nick confirmed. ‘One’s a six-foot-tall football player who doesn’t exactly have the feminine figure that we can see in the video. The other two are women, but they’re brunettes, twin sisters, and barely break five foot.”

“Nice,” Archie piped up from the back of the room. When everyone turned to glare at him, he blushed and apologized under his breath.

The rest of the meeting was spent divvying up assignments amongst team members. Despite the overnight shift being present to only help find Greg, dayshift was quickly falling behind on the influx of new cases to investigate and keep up with. Morgan and Sara begrudgingly agreed to help by heading over to a crime scene that needed to be analyzed.

After the team update about Greg’s case, Catherine went over the evidence they already had with Grissom. The older man smiled sadly while listening to Greg’s voicemail to Sara the morning he went missing and furrowed his brow while watching the video from the tavern. Greg clearly wasn’t acting like himself. Even intoxicated, Grissom couldn’t imagine Greg allowing himself to get to the point of stumbling and requiring help from _two_ people just to walk.

Most intriguing to Grissom were the recorded call from a woman kidnapper and the picture Sara had received of Greg. Most intriguing, but also most concerning. Greg looked in rough shape, and Grissom prayed that he had the strength to hold on until they could find him. He was silent for a full minute, deep in thought, then turned to Catherine. “So, what do we know about this woman? Assuming she’s the same person from the video, she’s likely white, blonde—”

“Or at least wears a blonde wig,” Catherine cut in.

Grissom nodded. “She’s about Greg’s height—”

“Give or take up to seven inches for heels…we can’t see her shoes in the video.”

He raised his eyebrows, “ _Seven-inch_ heels, Cath?”

She shrugged. “Could be more but based on her walk in the video she would have to be _extremely_ dexterous with…” Finally, Catherine laughed quietly and halted her train of thought. “Sorry. Coping mechanism. My mind is racing and I’m so worried for Greg.”

“I understand,” Grissom reassured her gently.

The woman continued after clearing her throat. “More importantly, we know that she was involved in a multiple-offender case that _both_ Sara and Greg played at least a small part in investigating.”

Grissom stood. “Let’s talk to Russell. That’s got to be enough to run through the computer—especially with the first name.”

Catherine shook her head sadly and stayed where she was. “Sorry, we already thought of that. No luck. None of this is adding up.”

* * *

Once Sara was back from her crime scene, she and Nick brought Grissom to the tavern to show him where Greg had initially been abducted. He stood in the parking, looking thoughtfully around at the area just outside of the side entrance. Sara pointed out where she’d found the torn fingernail that had later been proven to belong to Greg, while Nick went inside to have a look around once more.

“A vehicle took off from this area, in a rush,” he observed, gesturing around the area.

“Already looked into. I measured them and took pictures. The width indicates any vehicle larger than a sedan but smaller than a semi. The tread is so worn that it’s impossible to get a usable track to run through the system. Besides the fact that they happen to be right next to where we think a struggle occurred, they don’t prove anything. They could have been made at any point.”

Grissom nodded, and was silent once more as he studied the parking lot.

“Gil,” Sara began. She swallowed hard and squinted off into the distance. A headache that likely stemmed from the recent spike in stress and a less than optimum sleep schedule refused to give her a reprieve. Despite the likelihood of sounding like a babbling fool, Sara knew _something_ needed to be said. “I need you to know—"

“Sara, listen to me,” the man interrupted. “About the divorce. I’m disappointed, but only with myself. I don’t–I can’t–blame you, and I can’t expect you to feel satisfied in a marriage that is so…absent. Greg has always liked you; it’s been obvious. He’s a good guy, just a bit naïve sometimes,” he smiled. “And I’m over here as close to making you a widow as I can without dying. I’m not what you need, and it’s neither of our faults.”

After swallowing her shock, Sara smiled. “Thank you, Gil. You and I, we are—were—amazing.”

“Yes, we were.” His voice was gentle. “And we’re going to find Greg, together. I promise you that.”

Sara felt grateful toward Grissom and much better about their situation. She continued to show him Greg’s last known location as late afternoon faded discretely into early evening, and the young man’s fourth day missing neared its conclusion.

* * *

“ _Greg_!”

He could feel that his arms were still tied behind his back, but at some point, the tape must have been removed from his mouth. His eyelids cracked open, squinted against the sunlight shining through the window directly onto his face, and finally landed on the scorpion. It had now ventured so close to his face that he nearly had to cross his eyes to meet its beady gaze. It seemed to be becoming more and more curious about him.

Greg pondered what its sting might do to him; how long it would take him to die.

“ _Don’t think like that_ ,” Nick’s voice scolded.

_Oh, right._

“Great, more hallucinations.” Greg raised his eyebrows and then groggily closed his eyes again. His voice came out as a whisper, which was slightly concerning since he wasn’t trying to keep quiet. His throat felt warm and tight, and some of his other wounds were obviously inflamed and infected. Death by scorpion sting had to at least be _faster_ than being tortured and starved to death in this room of evil and anguish.

_“Just think about the grilled cheese.”_

Greg’s stomach growled noisily and he protested. “Don’t.”

_“Think about the burgers, the steaks, the sushi.”_

“Why are you doing this to me?” he moaned, curling into himself.

 _“You_ will _be able to have those things again, okay? Just not until we find you, and we_ will _find you. If you’ve ever needed your resolve and stubbornness, the determination you used to earn your college degrees, to become a DNA analyst and then a CSI…it’s now. You have more important things to worry about currently than how you’re going to die_.”

The words sounded harsh coming from Nick, but Greg knew he was right; knew he was wasting time feeling sorry for himself.

 _“Greg, just try to stay positive. We’ll find you.”_ Now, _that_ was Sara’s voice. His eyelids eagerly fluttered open once more, but both the scorpion and the sunlight were gone.

“Sara?” Greg wanted to hear her voice again, even if it wasn’t real. He glanced quickly around the room, finding it empty for now.

“ _Close your eyes, Greg_.”

“B-but I need to see you. Are you really here? Are you hurt?”

_“I’m okay. I’m with you. Now, close your eyes for me.”_

“Okay.” He smiled briefly and obliged. “There you are.”

_Her frizzy, wind-dried hair blew across her face. Eyes squinted slightly against the sun. And that smile, those lips. He’d never laid eyes on a more beautiful sight. “Miss me yet?” she asked playfully._

“More and more every day,” _he returned with what he figured was probably the dorkiest grin that Sara had ever laid eyes on._

_Sara grinned back at him and tucked a stray strand behind her ear._

“Have I ever told you how stunning you are?”

“ _I don’t believe so. Usually your come-ons are a bit less eloquent_.”

“Yeah. Sorry for that.”

“ _It’s alright. Compliment accepted. But whatever you do, Greg, don’t open your eyes_.”

“Okay, I won’t. I’m just going to lay here and…wait—why?”

Silence.

“Sara? Why?!”

Then, a chuckle. “Sara’s not here.”

Thrown off by the change in voice, Greg did exactly what Sara told him not to: he opened his eyes. It was still dark…or dark _again_ , depending on how long he’d been passed out, and he was freezing. A sharp, metallic object hovered by his face, reflecting the dull flicker of a lantern in the opposite corner.

“Oh good, you’re up.” _Whitney_. And her precious paring knife. “How are you feeling tonight?”

He didn’t humor her with an answer. Because it was a dumb question.

“How about you sit up and greet me properly?”

Greg groaned feebly.

“Look, if you don’t feel like sitting up, I’ll get Liam and he can help you. If we must resort to that, you’ll be standing.” She pointed up at the higher hook in the wall.

No, Greg didn’t want that. He didn’t think he’d _survive_ that. It was a grueling process, but he finally managed to orient himself into an upright position, though he still leaned heavily against the wall. His arms were asleep and he wished they were at least tied in front of his body instead of behind. Although his shoulder was back in place, it felt hot and achy and Greg could tell it was swollen.

“Thank you, Greg.”

Trembling from both the cold and the physical exertion, he narrowed his eyes at her. “Why do you even need m-me to sit up?” Greg briefly nodded toward the knife, “You can do just as much with that th-thing when I’m lying d-down,”

“Well, I’m honestly starting to worry about you. All you do is lay around lately, and that can’t be good for you,” Whitney worried, crouched in front of him.

Greg laughed, coughed until he had nearly blacked out, then laughed some more. “You’re r-right. I-It _can’t_ be good for me.”

She smiled in return, but there was suspicion in her eyes. “What’s so funny?”

“Literally n-nothing is funny about th-this,” Greg panted, then added: “Defense m-mechanism.”

Whitney returned the knife to its sheath before pressing the tip against his ribcage, slowly applying more and more pressure. Greg couldn’t stifle the yell of pain; even with the leather between the knife and his skin, it pressed against some of his bruised and fractured ribs. Greg could feel the broken edges of bone grinding together.

Whitney let up the pressure, and Greg let out the breath he’d been holding in. He coughed harshly, some blood spraying out and onto his lap. She caught his eyes with a pouted lip. “Would you rather I remove the sheath?”

Greg said nothing.

“It wouldn’t make much of a difference, anyway. My knife is certainly sharp enough to cut through leather with the right amount of pressure.”

“Why Amber?” he asked after a long pause.

“Because I sharpen it every day, silly—”

“No, wh-why ‘Amber’? Why th-that name?”

“Oh…well it’s a nice color, isn’t it?”

He squinted at her. “Okay. But what am I s-supposed to call you? I knew you b-by Whitney Adams first.”

“Like I said before, Whitney is no longer with us. You should call me Amber…but _only_ when I ask you to talk.”

Greg noted to himself that he would call her Whitney, just to piss her off. “You’re claiming dissociative identity d-disorder? Your life is hard so y-you create a new _you_ in order to survive it? L-look, that a true disorder but _you_ don’t have it. You w-were always like this, and your sister had help in her crimes.”

Whitney’s eyes narrowed at him as she pulled the knife from its sheath once more. “Nothing is that simple, Greg. I was always the quietest and shyest between myself and Lacey. I absolutely adored the games we played with Tommy, but I never led them. Lacey was my idol, my hero. I like to think that I took on part of my sister’s… _essence_ when she was put away.”

Greg wrinkled his nose in disdain. “Let me guess: now, you’re not so shy?”

“Exactly. But I must tell you, all this talk is really beginning to bore me.” She turned briefly from Greg, and when she crouched back in front of him Whitney had a strip of duct tape in her hand.

He did _not_ want that over his mouth again.

Greg shook his head, craning his neck to the side as far as possible. When Whitney persisted, he kicked out at her with one leg, but she easily caught his ankle and stood rapidly from her crouch. She yanked upward and Greg slid down the wall and onto his back and arms. The back of his head hit the hard floor, but he was only dazed for a fraction of a second before he began to fight back once more.

Whitney dodged each kick, and at her soonest opportunity she kicked out with her own foot, which unceremoniously stomped on Greg’s crotch. This took his breath away from him even quicker than some of the woman’s other games. His vision dimmed instantly, and he rolled onto his side, curling around the pain. When Whitney pressed the tape over his mouth he couldn’t even think about fighting back. She held her hand there longer than needed, blocking his nose as well until he finally got the strength to arch away.

“You…bitch…” he tried to shout through the tape, but it was muffled and barely recognizable as words. Whitney must have gotten the gist of it though because she slapped him across the face. Greg glared at her once the world stopped spinning.

She grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled him upright by it so that he was sitting once more. Then she had the knife again and it was suddenly so close to his eye that if he moved a fraction of an inch he risked never seeing again.

“If you could only keep one of the five senses, Greg, which would you choose? Sight?” The knife lingered for a moment longer near his eye, then trailed down subsequently to his nose then one of his ears. “Smell? Hearing?”

Greg was shaking and he couldn’t force himself to stop. He lay as still as possible, watching Whitney’s movement from the corner of his eyes and breathing quickly through flared nostrils.

“Taste?” The blonde leaned much closer and wiggled the edge of blade against the tape in front of Greg’s mouth. “Or my favorite,” she began, and suddenly reached behind Greg, grabbing one of his fingers before he felt the knife sawing against the side of it. He yelled through the tape and tried to pull his hand away from the pain. Whitney let go of his hand but returned to his front and leaned very close to him, “Touch?”

He felt the edge of the knife, now wet, against his throat.

“I always thought that I would keep my vision, because to me that’s the scariest to imagine losing. However, the more I consider it, the more I realize that I would be completely fine as long as I could _feel_.” She slid a hand roughly over his heaving chest. “Because if you can _feel_ something—or someone—through that touch alone you can live all of the other senses too.”

As soon as Greg realized her hand and the knife were gone, the knife was back, along with an oddly familiar smell. He peeled his eyes open, not recalling when he had closed them. He also didn’t remember moving, but he was positioned on his back again and stared up at the ceiling.

“Remember this?” Whitney caught his attention by dangling a white cloth over of his face.

She wore latex gloves and a hospital mask covering her nose and mouth. Greg’s eyes widened when he realized that the smell was coming from a small jar in the woman’s other hand. Whitney poured some of the jar’s contents onto the rag and Greg caught a brief, stronger whiff of the chloroform before it was pressed to his nose and he held his breath. His eyes burned and irritated tears rolled from them, triggered by the noxious fumes. He was already light-headed, and regretted his initial decision to hold his breath. Why fight?

But the choice was already made, and what did Greg have to lose at this point?

He struggled as much as he could with his arms still tied behind his back. He thrashed and kicked, but he was against a wall and Whitney was over him, her grip on his face unrelenting. Still, Greg held his breath.

After what felt like minutes but was likely only seconds, Greg heard shouted voices and glimpsed shapes moving around him. He couldn’t make out any words over the ringing in his ears and couldn’t see details through his squinting, still burning eyes.

But Greg _did_ recognize the boot that drove itself into his side; only Harris kicked like that. Even with the cloth still clamped over his face, air was forced from his lungs and he had no choice but to inhale hungrily. The light in the room was suddenly blinding, and the white-hot pain in his side pulsed angrily. Greg’s body went slack and his eyes rolled upward before the lids drifted shut.

“Amber,” Harris tried to get the woman’s attention.

“Shh.” She still had the cloth pressed down on the kid’s face even though he stopped fighting thirty seconds ago. Whitney was trembling and breathing hard.

“Alright, but if you still want a plaything after tonight you should probably let him have some fresh air,” Harris tossed casually over his shoulder as he left the room once more.

Finally, she removed the cloth from Greg’s face. She carefully secured the cloth and the now-closed bottle of chloroform into a leak-proof bag and removed her gloves and mask.

Before following Harris from the room, Whitney repositioned her captive to his side, since nausea and vomiting were common side effects of chloroform exposure. Harris was right; Whitney _didn’t_ want Greg dead. Not yet. He still had a role to play, and the time to bring him a companion was inching closer. She smiled and an excited giggle slipped from between her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the delay! Thank you so, so much for all the new comments--definitely helped me get over some of my insecurities with this fic. 💜


	11. Vær Så Snill

_My soundtrack: “Decks Dark” by Radiohead_

* * *

_Nevada v. Adams & Adams: Whitney Adams Testimony_

_Ten years ago_

Phelps had taken down Lacey Adams, and now he was ready to take down Whitney Adams…in a manner of speaking. Thelen had his turn with the younger sister, and together the defense painted Whitney as a sweet, abused, confused, _impressionable_ young woman who was simply sticking up for and following her sister, her idol, because that’s how it had always been. What else could she do?

The ‘idol’ part was correct, and although Phelps may not be able to put her away for as _much_ time because of her age and this being her first offense, he’d at least be sure that she didn’t walk out of here with a simple slap on the wrist.

He favored the young woman with his most charming smile as he approached her seat in the raised witness box. The dark-haired seventeen-year-old smiled timidly back at him, a slight blush suddenly gracing her pale cheekbones.

_These girls are good._

“Miss Adams, how did you come to know Thomas O’Bryan?”

“My sister Lacey dated him. I met him when he hung out at our place.”

“Yourself and Lacey lived together at this point, correct?”

“We still do.”

“Well…” Phelps scoffed at the inaccuracy: the girls currently lived in two separate jail cells with no interaction except with their attorney and in court. The judge caught his eyes however, and narrowed her own. The look on her face told him she was knew what he was thinking and to keep his mouth shut. “Well, how long did your sister and Mr. O’Bryan date before you met him?”

“Only a couple of days, I think.”

“Alright. Would you be able to tell me what happened in early August in the restaurant bathroom with yourself, Mr. O’Bryan, and your sister?”

Whitney sighed and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Phelps didn’t think this, unlike everything else she did, was an act. She glanced briefly at Lacey before looking back to him. “Lacey and Tommy had a fight a week after they started dating. She said that he hit her. She told me that we couldn’t let him get away with that. We knew he was at the restaurant with his friends, so I went with Lacey over there and we followed him into the bathroom. It was just the three of us in there at the time. Lacey and I waited until he’d zipped up, then she pushed him against the wall. She held his arms and told me to wrap my hands around his throat. I did what she said, because like she said, we couldn’t let him think that hitting Lacey was okay. Lacey kept urging me on, telling me to squeeze harder, and it felt good because I was making her happy.”

 _Jesus Christ._ “When did you let go of Mr. O’Bryan’s throat?”

“One of his friends came into the restroom, yelled at us. We let him go and ran out.”

“Why did you run if you were only sticking up for yourselves?”

“Lacey said that not everyone would see it that way, and that if we got caught, we’d be separated.”

“I see. Did he fight back when you were attacking him?”

“No, he didn’t. We thought he probably knew we were serious and didn’t want to make us any angrier. And like I said a few minutes ago to Mr. Thelen, we weren’t _attacking_ him…it was self-defense, self-preservation.” Whitney’s was completely serious, and Phelps discreetly observed the jury’s faces to be sure they weren’t buying this. Fortunately, he saw most members exchanging suspicious expressions and mouthed queries.

“Self-defense, you say? Mr. O’Bryan wasn’t intimidated by you and your sister; he was nearly knocked unconscious when Lacey ‘pushed’ him against the wall. I’d like to direct the jury’s attention to evidence exhibit 25-C and D on the screen,” Phelps pressed a button, and two images popped up. “These are pictures that were taken of Thomas O’Bryan the morning after the bathroom incident, when he decided to report the _attack_ to the police.”

“Objection,” Robert Thelen again interrupted. “This evidence is irrelevant. Mr. O’Bryan decided not to press charges against my clients. This evidence has nothing to do with _this_ case, and should have been disposed-of long ago.”

“Your honor,” Mr. Phelps explained. “A violent crime was reported to the authorities. Any evidence from those crimes, although never pursued, isn’t just thrown away. It’s kept on hand in case of future issues. In this case, these images prove both tendency and motive.”

“I tend to agree with Mr. Phelps,” the judge told Thelen. “The restroom attack is not a closed case, simply one that’s been put on hold.”

Again, the jury’s attention was brought to the images on the screen. One, a side profile of Thomas O’Bryan showing a large bruise on his temple, and the other was a close-up of his throat, where hand-print-shaped bruises could faintly be seen.

“Do you still call this self-defense?”

“Yes,” Whitney said resolutely. “Myself and Lacey are still alive; he is not. Lacey says, we should always aim for a resolution like this.”

“A resolution that ends in murder?”

“Whatever it takes,” Whitney shrugged.

“Miss Adams, did Mr. O’Bryan fight back when you and Lacey drugged and kidnapped him?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Did he fight back when you had him tied up in the apartment you shared with your sister? Did he fight back when you both tortured him for forty-eight hours straight?”

“At first, yes. But then…it was almost like his spirit died. You know? He stopped fighting back. We just needed to teach him a lesson, show him that you don’t hit girls, and not to mess with us. But then Lacey…went too far, and he died. We brought him back to his apartment to try to make it look like a suicide. Lacey said it would work, that you’d never come for us.”

More shocked and disgusted glances were exchanged amongst the jurors.

“Did any part of your brain tell you that what you and your sister were doing to Thomas O’Bryan might be wrong? That you might be taking things a bit too far?”

“No,” Whitney shook her head quickly. “I don’t think about those things. Lacey handles all that difficult stuff. She’s better at it.”

“Miss Adams, if you could do things over, would you change anything?”

Whitney fluttered her eyelashes at him. “No. Why would I do that?”

* * *

Much of Sunday was spent multi-tasking at the crime lab; the team both catching up with Grissom and working together to investigate Greg’s case. Their one person-of-interest, the man they now knew had lied to them, was missing. They hadn’t been able to locate Harris for four days, and without a more detailed description of the blonde, the investigators were stuck at a standstill until a search warrant could be signed by a judge. Mostly the group brainstormed, as well as flipped through just about every case Greg and Sara had ever worked together.

After yet another sleepless night, they finally obtained a search warrant for the Harris household late Monday morning, thanks to desperate favors called in to some of Grissom’s friends in high places. Grissom, Sara, and Catherine were conducting the search. Well, officially Sara was supposed to be at home resting; an order once more from Ecklie. Although Greg’s case was personal for everyone at the crime lab, there was a silent agreement that Sara was perhaps a bit more emotionally involved. Although no one except for Nick knew what happened between the two, most seemed at least suspicious. Sara felt that her friends, coworkers, and boss were shunning her when they tried to get her to go home. And _unofficially_ , nothing could keep her away from something this big. 

“This is it?” Grissom asked as Catherine parallel-parked the SUV in front of the modest two-story cape cod in Spring Valley. Two police cruisers were also positioned out front, and several officers stood near them, talking amongst each other. Brass stood off to the side with a gray-haired woman who was dressed in a robe and appeared distraught. She gripped a small gray dog in her arms so tightly that Sara briefly feared for its safety…until she saw it snarl at Brass.

“This is the place,” Sara confirmed after double-checking the address.

“I’ll go see I can break down Momma Harris anymore,” Catherine stated with a sly smile before unbuckling and exiting the vehicle.

“I guess we’ll take the house,” Grissom mused, exchanging a glance with Sara. Together, they flashed their IDs at the uniform who stood guarding the front door before cautiously stepping into the dusky home to have a look around.

The house was scantily furnished and decorated, and it took less than an hour to fully search it top to bottom. They confiscated hair- and toothbrushes for DNA, some unlabeled VHS tapes from William Harris’s room, and a 90’s-era desktop computer. The items were to be dropped off with Archie when they arrived back at the lab. Sara was most hopeful about the computer, because although it was aged it appeared to be connected to the internet. Perhaps Harris had communicated online with this mysterious blonde from the tavern; something that could be easily traced and tracked.

Catherine and Brass were still talking to Mrs. Harris as Grissom and Sara loaded the last of the evidence into the SUV. Sara had glimpsed a small shed out back while they were searching inside, and wanted to check it out before calling it a day. Grissom joined the small group surrounding Mrs. Harris, and Sara started to round the side of the house.

“Don’t go too far!” Grissom called out when he noticed Sara wandering towards the backyard, evidence kit still in hand.

“I won’t,” she shouted over her shoulder. “I’m just going to have a quick peek out back.”

Knowing that the entire property had already been cleared by Brass and his men, Grissom voiced none of the objections racing through his mind and turned his attention back to the drama unfolding in front of him.

“Are you all done disrespecting an old woman’s privacy?!” Harris’s mother yelled shrilly at him as Grissom approached.

He winced at her voice, having not missed this part of the job. Despite his annoyance he managed a polite smile. “Just give us a couple more minutes, Mrs. Harris, and I promise we’ll be out of your hair.”

“Yes, and we _really_ appreciate your cooperation and time,” Catherine added carefully. “Mrs. Eileen Harris, this is Dr. Gil Grissom. He’s helping with our search. Eileen here was just telling me that she hasn’t seen her son in days and she’s very worried about him.”

Eileen nodded as she began to sob. “My Willy wouldn’t do _anything_ wrong! I don’t know why you people won’t leave him alone!”

“Mrs. Harris, nobody said your son did anything wrong,” Grissom assured the hysterical woman. “We just want to talk to him. Your William was the last known person to see my friend, and I think he might be able to help us find him.”

Grissom, Brass, and Catherine all nodded and walked away. The woman wasn’t going to give them anything useful; that much was clear.

Catherine chuckled quietly once they were out of earshot. “Well, her ‘Willy’ better turn himself in soon. Or _she_ had better start talking. Wait, where is Sara?”

“She went to check the backyard,” Grissom answered, glancing in that direction.

Catherine nodded but had an ominous suspicion that something wasn’t right. She began to make her way along the side of the house with Grissom and Brass following closely behind her.

“Sara?” Catherine called out when they reached the backyard.

There was no answer.

Grissom spotted the small outbuilding and started toward it. “Catherine, Jim, over here!”

Brass and Catherine rushed over, both pulling out their service revolvers.

The door was unlocked and creaked inward easily when Catherine nudged it open with her gun.

“Sara?”

A flashlight had dropped onto the floor, and highlighted Sara’s evidence case laying in the middle of the shed on its side. The small area had a weak, musty smell.

“She’s gone!” Catherine cried over her shoulder.

Brass swore and quickly held his radio up to his lips. “All available units, head to the area of Wilson and Highmont in Spring Valley. We have a 4-4-4. On the way, keep an eye out for any larger vehicles driving erratically, and any suspicious persons on foot.”

Grissom was still in disbelief. He’d let Sara wander off by herself…this was his fault. He suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to Catherine.

“She can’t have gotten far, Gil. Let’s look around.”

On their way back to the front, Catherine realized that Grissom had frozen and was peering up at the corner of the house’s roof. “What is it?”

“This place has a security camera,” he gestured upwards. Catherine backtracked and looked up in disbelief at the device. It was hidden under the eve and pointed toward the front of the house and the driveway.

“Brass!” Catherine barked at the Captain. “Find out where this camera feeds to!”

The man nodded and made his way back to Mrs. Harris. He was determined to get answers from her, and wouldn’t be nearly as pleasant about it now.

* * *

_One hour earlier_

“Wakey wakey, Greggy!”

Whitney’s voice chimed over him, causing Greg to awaken with a sharp breath. He rolled stiffly onto his back, eyelids squinting against the daylight at the shadow standing over him. His whole body ached; Greg didn’t remember ever being in this much pain, even after the lab explosion. Even after the beating in the alley. Each slight motion triggered an enormous amount of strain on his broken ribs and the gashes in his flesh.

His eyes were still burning from the chloroform, and he couldn’t seem to clear his vision. Sweat trickled down his skin. It dripped into his cuts and burned the open and infected wounds. He groaned weakly through the duct tape when Whitney casually nudged his thigh with her shoe. “Come on. You’ve been so resilient throughout all of this. Don’t tell me you’re giving up now.”

He still didn’t respond, and his eyes had once again drifted shut. There was a rustling sound directly next to him and he startled awake once more. Whitney had knelt next to him and pinched something in her fingers over his face. He flinched away, knowing it was probably an item involved in her next game, but she used her other hand to clamp around his jaw and keep him in place. The object was nearly clear, and glittered in the sunlight. It could have been glass, or…

“If you promise to be good, I’ll take the tape off your mouth and you can have a couple ice cubes. We must get you standing to meet your guest. You _do_ want to be polite, now don’t you?”

Greg watched her guardedly after she spoke, wondering if this was a trick. He supposed it could be _poisoned_ ice…but on the other hand perhaps Whitney knew that even sub-humans need water to survive and didn’t want her plaything to leave her yet.

And who was this guest she repeatedly mentioned?

He nodded slightly, just once, and Whitney beamed at him. “Good boy. Hey, Liam!” she shouted over her shoulder. “Come in here!”

Greg shook his head and his breathing sped up. _No. I said I’d be good._

“Don’t worry, he’s just going to help you stand up. I wouldn’t want you to choke on your ice. Besides, you haven’t moved your legs much in the six days since your arrival.”

He froze. _Six days. That can’t be right._

Harris strode into the small room. A slight cool breeze followed him in and it felt amazing against Greg’s feverish flesh, distracting him from the duration of his captivity here.

His chain rattled, and Greg was once again being dragged upwards by his neck. He panicked; he didn’t think he could stand on his own. _I’m going to die._

The chain was attached to the higher hook, and Greg still couldn’t make his legs work. He desperately tried to pulled himself up on the chain, but his arms were less cooperative than his legs.

He heard Whitney sigh. “Help him, Liam.”

Harris rolled his eyes but stepped up to Greg and lifted him under his arms.

Greg fought at first, but then Whitney ripped the tape from his mouth and with Harris supporting most of his weight, he could _breathe_ , and he sagged against the larger man. Harris supported him for several minutes, but when he finally let go of Greg, he collapsed again.

_Fuck, Greg, stop being so fucking useless._

“I don’t think this is going to work,” Harris protested when Whitney gestured for him to once more help Greg.

“It will, trust me. Pick him up.”

Harris did as she said, and Greg’s head rested against the man’s shoulder—he only lifted it when Whitney pulled upward on his hair. She waited until he met her eyes, then smiled at him. “Greg, listen to me. Liam here is going to make a quick field trip into Spring Valley, and when he gets back…I think you’ll want to see who he has with him.”

Her words were barely making any sense to Greg. Her voice was fading in and out and Greg had to fight to stay awake. Suddenly, something cold and wet pressed against his lips, and he took the ice into his mouth. It melted almost instantly, and the liquid felt like heaven sliding down his parched throat.

“Did you hear me? Do you want to be awake to see Sara?”

Attention immediately drawn to Whitney’s last word, Greg lifted his head further of his own accord and glared at her. “You’re lying,” he accused her. It _had_ to be a lie; a bluff. Sara was too smart to get caught like that. Like him.

 _But she_ has _been abducted. Does the name ‘Natalie Davis’ ring a bell?_

He closed his eyes, mostly to hide the fear in them.

“What is it, Greg? Not so sure of yourself anymore?” Fingers still raveled into her prisoner’s hair, Whitney pulled and leaned closer to try to get him to look at her. “I think you underestimate us.”

He tried to pull away from her touch but a firm squeeze from Harris across his ribcage stopped him. “Leave her alone,” growled Greg through gritted teeth.

“No. Why would I do that?”

“Because…I’ll stop talking and fighting back.” He swallowed thickly, hating himself more with each word leaving of his mouth. “I’ll do anything you want. I’ll be…good.”

There was silence, and finally Greg had to open his eyes. It was _too_ quiet.

Whitney’s face was inches from his own. A demented smile had formed on her lips. “Say please.”

“I swear, I’ll—” He was silenced by a finger across his lips.

“ _Say. Please._ ”

Greg took a few thin breaths, then: “Please.”

She smiled wider and let go of his hair, finally backing up and heading for the door. “No, I don’t think I’ll take you up on that. Liam, let go of him. Slowly.”

“No, wait!” Greg pled desperately as Harris began to release some of his weight.

Against Greg’s every expectation of himself, he was somehow able to remain standing on his own…for now. He wanted to yell, to scream at Whitney and Harris to come back and listen to him, taunt him, torture him, do _anything_ that didn’t involve going after Sara.

But if he tried to yell, Greg knew he would cough. If he coughed, he couldn’t breathe…if he couldn’t breathe, he’d pass out…if he passed out, he’d die. The door slammed shut, latched, and Greg heard the chains and padlocks securing him further in this dungeon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be coming soon! Let me know what you think.
> 
> *Also, I edited some earlier chapter to correct some timelines. This will likely continue to happen. Sorry!


	12. Reunited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the hurt/comfort! Enjoy!

_My soundtrack: “How Did You Love” by Shinedown, "Five Knuckle Supper" by Nick Nolan_

* * *

Sara awoke when the vehicle jolted to a halt and she slid against the back of the van’s seats. It was dark, and it took her long time to realize that darkness was due to the pillowcase over her head. She felt nauseous and her head was throbbing, likely from whatever she had been drugged with, but for the most part she felt uninjured. The last thing she remembered was searching the Harris household with Grissom, then entering the shed…

_A clothed hand reached from behind the shed door and an ethereal, musty smell covered her nose and mouth. Another arm wound around her midsection, holding her tightly. Sara reacted as quickly as she could, shouting to try to get her coworkers’ attention and swinging the back of her head into her attacker’s nose. She heard a satisfying crunch when it met its mark. The grip around her briefly loosened, but it hadn’t loosened for long enough before tightening around her again. She finally inhaled greedily and instantly felt light-headed. She was able to take in a small amount of oxygen through the cloth, but not enough to cancel out the amount of drug in the soaked rag. She didn’t know how long she fought…_

…but it hadn’t been nearly enough because here she was.

A hushed, one-sided conversation resonated from one of the front seats of the van.

“I did what you wanted, so I don’t know why you’re angry. Yes, I promise no one saw. It was the best chance I was going to get. Yeah, alright. I just pulled up. We’ll be right in. I think she’s still passed out.”

While listening, Sara swiftly evaluated her predicament. Her wrists were bound behind her with something that felt like rope, but her legs and feet were free. Memories of her previous abduction flooded Sara’s mind. Back then, Natalie Davis had stored her in the trunk of small car, and Sara’s escape attempt had _not_ gone well.

The pillowcase was loose enough that she could have maneuvered it off, and was beginning to do so when the voice abruptly fell silent. She hadn’t been able to gain anything useful from her captor’s conversation, except that there were at least two people working together in this. At least one was a man, and the other was seemingly in charge of the show. She knew that playing dumb and weak was probably the best path to take for now. Especially since her holster was vacant and the emptiness of her pocket told her that her phone had been taken as well.

The drivers’ side door creaked open and the weight of the van shifted. Sara took several deep breaths to compose herself before the side door rolled open and hot air flooded in. She was grabbed by one arm and pulled from the van and onto her feet. The pillowcase was pulled from over her head and through her tangled hair the desert sunshine nearly blinded her. The sand was tinged red here and reflected the sun’s rays into a shimmering mirage of flames and embers.

It was a struggle to stay standing when her headache returned with a vengeance. Squinting, she observed her surroundings as best she could. A maroon Chevrolet Astro van parked to her left. To her right, a vast desert of struggling vegetation and shallow rolling hills. In front of her, a sun-scalded warehouse with a rusted metallic roof in the shape of an ‘A’. Two large solar panels were mounted on opposite sides of the roof and were the only clue that the building had been utilized at all in the past fifty years.

Behind Sara and slightly to her left stood the large man that she recognized as William Harris, the bartender and owner of Jack’s. His hand still securely gripped her upper arm. She felt some satisfaction at the sight of his clearly broken and bloodied nose, knowing that she had inflicted at least some discomfort on him. She also noticed that his hand was bandaged; something that Sara didn’t believe she had caused. A fleeting hope made her smirk secretly, proudly:

_Did you fight back too, Greg?_

Harris began to drag her to the warehouse doors and she had a suspicion that the chances of making it out of this building alive were quite low. Her heart thudded heavily against her sternum, she was breathing in gasps, but she kept herself from pleading or asking any questions. Sara was set on being as strong as she needed to be to survive this, just like always.

There was a thick chain and padlock across the sturdy handles of the warehouse doors. Harris had to let go of her briefly to unlock it, but Sara did not attempt to run. She knew she wouldn’t get far. She still had no idea where she was, and the desert heat was growing in intensity as the sun neared the apex of the sky. Besides, she had a feeling that she was about to find out if Greg was still alive, and nothing could make her turn away from that opportunity.

Harris pulled one of the heavy doors outward and shoved Sara in front of him into the much darker building. Light fixtures dangled from the ceiling, but both the height of the warehouse and the mere vastness of the at least four stories equaled poor light penetration. Despite the industrial-sized fans lining the wall, the air was stale and carried a scent that was simultaneously metallic and musty. It _was_ cooler inside than out, so at least there was that to be thankful for. There appeared to be a few small administration rooms built into the far-left edge of the area, along with a door marked with a ‘bathroom’ sign.

The door swung shut behind her, and Sara jumped slightly when she heard the chains and padlock securing to this side of the doors. As Harris’s hand wrapped back around her arm and Sara could already feel the bruises developing, she watched as a slender figure walked from the shadows near the line of rooms. There was about twenty yards between them, and the figure spanned it slowly, hips swaying and arms relaxed at the sides as if she was simply enjoyed a walk through the park.

The woman eventually stood directly in front of Sara, and Harris’ grip on her arm momentarily tightened, as if reminding her not to try anything stupid. She was beautiful, Sara supposed, in a physical way. However, there was something ugly in the blonde’s emerald eyes that caused alarm bells to sound. She had experienced a feeling akin to this before–too many times–and she recognized it as being in the presence of a true psychopath. One that had hurt, even killed in the past and would not hesitate to repeat it.

The blonde smiled almost sadly, “I know who _you_ are.” She had a faint east coast accent that Sara could not pinpoint to an exact burrow.

“Well that makes one of us,” Sara shot back at her.

The girl’s eyes narrowed. “You have no idea who I am?”

“Only an idea. You’re one of the last people seen with Greg. I’m guessing you’re the mysterious blonde drinking with him at the bar. You helped your wingman Harris get Greg out to a taxi…only that was all a big lie, wasn’t it?”

“The only part of that statement that was a lie was the ‘taxi’ part. We did help Greg get outside and the rest is just small details that were left out. After we drugged him, we led him outside. Did you know that ketamine blends quite nicely into beer? As it dissolves, the powder releases bubbles that are mistaken for carbonation. What we gave him should have knocked him out, but we needed to drug him more in the van to sufficiently subdue him. He sure is a fighter, isn’t he Sara?”

She clenched her fists and her tone was restrained when she asked the question. “Where is Greg?”

“I’m about to show you, Sara. Be patient. Are you _sure_ that witness descriptions from the bar is the only place you recognize me from?”

Sara was silent, only studying the other woman carefully. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but nothing was coming to mind. Also, it was difficult to focus on identifying the woman when she had just mentioned Greg. She gave a small nod of her head.

The blonde turned brusquely and began walking back in the direction of the line of rooms. “Bring her this way, Liam.” Then she paused briefly to look back over her shoulder, meeting Sara’s glare. “I’ll let you call me Amber.”

The woman was obviously supplying her with a fake name. “I’m honored,” Sara tossed back sarcastically.

They finally reached the door to which Amber lead them, and shock hit Sara when she saw the red shoe prints demonstrating the gory traffic in and out of the room. She supposed it could be paint, but that would be a reassuring thought and nothing about this situation was reassuring; especially the smell. She wrinkled her nose and nausea hit her again. Bile rose in the back of her throat.

_What if some—or all—of this blood belongs to Greg?_

There was another padlock on this door, and this time it was Amber that pulled a key from her pocket. However, before inserting in into the keyhole, she turned back to Sara and her smile had vanished. “Let it be known, I do _not_ approve of you and Greg.”

“What are you talking about?” Sara returned, knowing for sure now that this woman was nuts as well as psychotic.

“That’s exactly my point. Greg sacrificed everything for you. He’s loved you since he first met you, and you? You threw it back it his face. You should have run away to Peru with Dr. Grissom, Sara. Greg might never have been involved in this.”

“H-How do you know so much about us?” Sara questioned, feeling a bit shaken by the clear certainty in Amber’s voice.

“I’ve been following you for a long time, Sara. I just want to punish you for what you put my sister through. What you put _me_ through. You separated us, and we were never meant to be separated.”

“Who _are_ you?” Sara was extremely confused, although now she knew this had to be related to a case.

“I don’t have time to give you all the answers, Sara. I have errands to run. I’m only putting you in with him because the other rooms aren’t yet set up for containment. We’re working on it,” Amber added almost defensively. “You really don’t _deserve_ to see him, but I don’t trust you anywhere less secure.”

Everything began to move in slow-motion as Amber unlocked and swung open the door. If Greg was in here, Sara hoped that he was alive. But all that blood on the floor…

Another wall of hot air hit Sara as soon as the door swung inward. This new room contained no lights or fans. The concrete floor held a shallow layer of dirt along with numerous puddles of a dark liquid that could only be blood. A couple of strawbales were pressed into one corner, as if masquerading as a bed or a couch. Two chairs sat directly in front of her, facing each other, and Sara couldn’t help but notice the especially large blood pool and splatters surrounding one, as well as fragments of rope on both the back and front legs of the chair. Several buckets were tucked into another corner, containing a substance over which hovered swarms of _Lucilia sericata_ , and Sara suspected it was mostly to blame for the stench that surrounded her along with the heat.

Sara’s eyes finally landed on the figure in the shadows, against the wall near the buckets. Despite the light penetrating the small room’s single window, it was difficult to make out much more than shapes, but it _had_ to be Greg, right? The figure appeared to be standing, which was a good sign, but if it _was_ Greg, why was he not reacting to their presence? Only Harris’s strong grip kept her upright as she strained to see more details. Her attention was suddenly drawn to the glimmer of a blade close to her face.

“If you try to escape,” Amber said quietly but definitively, “I will make sure that _both_ of you regret it.”

Sara nodded without hesitation.

_‘…both of you regret it’, she said. Dead men cannot regret. Greg is alive._

She only wanted to check on him and was willing to tell Amber whatever she wanted to hear. She flinched as the knife was lowered to her back but then relief replaced fear when she felt and heard it being used to cut away the bindings around her wrists. The rope dropped to the floor behind her as Amber pressed a small steel object into Sara’s hand.

“You might need this.” It was said as an afterthought.

Sara brought her hands to the front, shoulders aching, and looked down. A small key rested in her palm. She frowned, unsure what she might need it for. It was too small for the door locks—not that Amber would have given her the ability to escape. It looked like a handcuff key. Her hands were almost completely numb from the tight ropes, but she managed to fold her fingers around it. She didn’t move another inch until both captors exited and the door was shut and locked between them. Finally, they were alone.

“Greg?” Sara rapidly closed the gap between them. Halfway there, she could see that he was wearing only underwear. Her heart plummeted. Arriving in front of him, Sara noticed that his wrists were bound behind him, as hers had been not long ago.

“No, no, no,” she repeated when everything came tumbling into place: Greg wasn’t _standing_ at all. A chain looped around his neck and was affixed to a loop high on the wall. Greg was hanging by his throat, legs buckled beneath him. He was motionless when she shakily patted his cheek. Her next reaction was to try to lift him up to relieve the pressure on his neck, and Sara did just that, her arms wrapping under his and around his damp chest and back. His head lolled heavily onto her shoulder. Greg was much lighter than he should have been, and the heat emanating from his body did little to reassure her that he was okay. Then Sara recalled the key that Amber had given her; it was still somehow grasped tightly in her hand.

Trying to continue support at least some of his weight, she grasped clumsily at the tight chain and located the padlock at the back of Greg’s neck. She unlocked it as quickly as her unsteady hands would permit. With a grunt, she lifted Greg slightly higher to allow her to unhook the lock and release him from the chain. Once his weight was fully on her, they gracelessly collapsed to the ground together, Greg on top and still so limp.

She gingerly rolled Greg off of her and onto his back. Her eyes had fully adjusted to the dim of the room, and she could see that dark red blood coated virtually everywhere on his skin. There was so much that it was impossible to see where it originated. His eyes were closed, flesh pale, and lips an ashy purple-blue. Sara moved her fingers to his neck and pressed, searching for a pulse. His skin was scorching to the touch and sticky with mostly dried blood. “Come on, Greg, please! Wake up.”

Sara quickly felt that Greg’s throat was swollen, and if he did have a heartbeat, it would be impossible to find there. She reached to his wrist, and after several agonizing moments, palpated a small throbbing under his thumb. It was faint, rapid. She laid a hand onto his chest and leaned over him, hovering an ear directly over his slightly parted lips. In ten seconds, she felt and heard nothing. She pulled away and shook him by his shoulders. Sara had to force herself to ignore the sick feeling in her stomach that being rough with his already abused body caused. “Greg! Come on, breathe! Breathe for me, please.”

She was preparing herself to begin mouth-to-mouth when suddenly, she heard a tiny sound from his mouth. Not a full breath, but an attempt at one. Sara leaned closer, rubbing her knuckles across his chest, trying to stimulate him to take in more air. “Greg,” she whispered.

She heard it again, louder this time, and with it felt his chest rise unsteadily. “That’s it, good!”

Greg’s eyelids remained close, but the globes rolled frantically under them as if he was dreaming. Sara wondered how long he had been hanging and unconscious. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes–no one could still be alive in that position for long, especially if they were already in a compromised condition, like Greg. Oxygen deprivation could cause memory problems, brain damage…

_Oh my god. What if he never wakes up?_

Although thankful that the man was breathing on his own, albeit not sustainably, Sara was still in panic mode. Greg would not make it much longer, even freed now from that metal noose. Any trauma to his throat would only cause more swelling as time went on. Without some sort of medical intervention, Greg could easily stop breathing again. That was, if he did not succumb from bleeding out, dehydration, starvation, or infection beforehand. Gently, Sara rolled Greg onto his side and propped him that way. She hesitantly left his side to rummage around the room, searching for anything that might help them escape or at the very least defend themselves.

Sara heaved the hay bales to the window and stacked them underneath it, then climbed on top of them. If she stood on her toes, she could just get a glimpse out the small window. More of the same terrain that she saw after being pulled from the van; she wanted to make sure that her drugged mind hadn’t imagined the red sand. As the sun gradually sank from the apex of the sky to the west, the building began to lay a huge, pyramid-shaped shadow in front of the window.

In her career, Sara spent a lot of time scouring the outskirts of Las Vegas. In the outskirts—that’s where they got most of their body-dumps. It was where people left things they wanted to forget. If even a microscopic amount of planning went into it, most criminals were smart enough to hide evidence away from the city, in the preserves and wilderness. The unpopulated areas of Nevada, where the desert still ran the show and the elements quickly devoured what the scavengers could not.

Her studies of the landscape increased drastically after the Natalie Davis incident, when she’d been forced to wander the desert, hurt and lost. If she hadn’t left a trail for her fellow investigators, Sara surely would have died out there. Her research confirmed that each vicinity had its own characteristics: wildlife, vegetation, and geography that set it apart from the others. Fortunately for Sara, this area was one of the easiest to identify.

The Valley of Fire.

This window looks east. If we get out, we run northwest. Because at this point, we’d be better off finding I-15 and flagging down a car.

Another small wheeze from Greg. She glanced worryingly in his direction. Seeing him laying there, seriously wounded, barely able to even breathe on his own…one of the most basic and involuntary actions of the frail human body. Sara knew she was getting way ahead of herself when she imaged the two of them running away from this place.

She dragged the bales back to the corner and quickly scoured the rest of the room. Besides the fragments of rope strewn across the floor, the chairs, and themselves, the room was bare. Sara exhaled in frustration. She wished she at least had some clean water to get him to drink when he woke up, proper bandaging material, a cool pack to lay across Greg’s neck to ease the swelling. Although if Sara could ask for anything, it wouldn’t be those items. She would ask to travel back in time a week and never let Greg walk out of her apartment that morning.

Sara crouched back down next to Greg, reassuring herself that his chest still rose and fell. It was gradually growing darker in the room, but her eyes had fully adjusted and she looked him over more completely than before. It took all her restraint to control her emotions as she assessed his wounds. She settled in a solemn place somewhere between desperate sobs for her good friend, and a violent rage fixated on their captors needing to pay for their deeds.

A dried stream of blood started behind his hairline on the left side of his head, and a worryingly deep cut ran vertically down the side of his neck. She suspected that was where most of the blood had come from. His back, chest, and arms were covered with more cuts, scrapes, and bruises. All the injuries were of varying sizes, depths, and some seemed to have occurred more recently than others. His right shoulder was visibly swollen, and Greg’s throat had several different bruise and abrasion patterns encircling it, indicating more than one strangulation incident.

As she prodded to better evaluate the severity of each of his injuries, she looked to his face. Sara observed no reaction at all to her touch, no quickening of already shallow breaths, no change in facial expression. She wanted him to awaken even though he was probably better off unconscious. There was no practical escape plan yet, and she hoped that he at least wasn’t in pain when he was asleep. But she needed his company, and to know that he could wake up.

This is so wrong. All of this is wrong.

Sara began to talk softly, because the quiet was wrong too. She spoke about cases they had worked together, and times Greg had been there for her when no one else was. They’d survived the lab explosion together, and even during individual crises, one could somehow cheer the other up. She hoped he could hear her; Greg needed to know that she appreciated him and was still here for him. She also talked to distract herself from each horrifying find on his broken body. Sara checked his pulse during particularly long lags between his weak breaths, and stayed at his side, staying alert for any noises of their captors reentering.

* * *

_Some time later_

A shrill ringing filled his ears along with a loud, fast-paced, and repetitive _thump_ coming at him from every direction. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t feel, he couldn’t smell, but he could _hear_ Sara’s muffled voice, and he instantly relaxed. Sure, he was hallucinating again. His mind was playing tricks on him, but Greg simply listened and appreciated the opportunity to hear her voice. In his dreamlike, insensate state he could still make out her words of comfort and her soothing tone…

Then it was silent and he wanted to call out for her. Both the ringing and the _thump_ ing stopped, but those didn’t matter. The sudden absence of Sara’s voice did. He wanted to cry out, but couldn’t make a sound. He didn’t want to be alone in this perpetual nothing.

_Come back!_

_“Don’t worry, Greg. Sara may have left, but_ I’ll _always be here for you.”_

Shit, that was Whitney’s voice. Precisely the last thing Greg wanted to hear.

_“Aren’t you having fun, honey?”_

_Leave me alone._

His punishment this time for talking back: Whitney let him feel again. By the time he realized his other senses were crashing back, it was too late to brace himself for the unbearable pain.

Sara had finished assessing those wounds that she could easily reach without shifting him around too much. She heard a small whimper, and Greg rolled weakly to his back and began to shake his head slowly, side to side. His breathing was beginning to speed up drastically. Sara rechecked his pulse, timing it with her watch: one-hundred and ten beats per minute and rising. “Greg?”

She reached to his forehead when she saw red tinge his skin was taking on. He was warm; too warm. It was growing hotter in the warehouse, the steel roof emanating heat from the late afternoon sun, but Sara theorized that the main cause of his spike in temperature was likely infection from his wounds; both seen and unseen.

Ultimately, Greg seemed to become aware of the hand touching him and he jerked violently to the side before swinging his arm wildly in her direction. His eyes had finally opened, and although they appeared glazed over and unfocused, but his aim was good. The back of his hand would have impacted with Sara’s face if she hadn’t dodged at the last moment. The frantic man rolled in the opposite direction and found the wall there. He tried to use the surface to leverage himself to his feet, but he was too weak. His fingers grasped at the wall, gripping and scratching as he continued to try to climb.

Sara noticed that he was leaving fresh blood marks on the stone wall, and knew she had to do something. She debated between trying to talk him down, and wrestling him to the ground to him from further hurting himself. She didn’t know how much longer his heart and body could take this overtaxing activity. He still refused to look in her direction. His eyes dashed about the room as he focused solely on getting as far away as possible. He was in a panicked state and obviously believed that Sara was one of his torturers.

She had not spoken since last checking his pulse, and Sara decided to try and get through to him one more time before stopping him physically. Her hope was that hearing her voice might make him realize that she wasn’t who he thought. She knew she could restrain him in his current condition but did not want to have to do that. “Greg, stop! Please!” Sara nearly shouted this time, attempting to sound as reassuring as possible while still projecting her voice to try to break through to him.

Sara let out a deep breath when Greg stopped his clawing motions against the wall and sagged against it, just barely managing to turn his head toward her. Finally, he _saw_ her. His chest still heaved and his breath sounded much more constricted than it had been when he was unconscious, but his weary, bloodshot eyes met hers and froze.

“Sara…” he croaked.

She nodded, unable to stop yet more tears before they spilled down her cheeks. She carefully made her way to him, crossing the distance with a crawl, at his level. Sara was prepared to halt at any point if he displayed more signs of fear. He did not, just stared with wide eyes at her as if she was a ghost. As he panted in and out, it was clear that his lungs were not working well enough to feed his entire body, and Sara wondered if he had more going on than she could see on the outside. Broken ribs? A punctured lung? Damaged trachea? What other horrors had Amber and her goon put him through in the six days he’d been gone?

The look in his eyes changed abruptly from confusion and sadness to a mixture of shock and relief. It was then that Sara felt compelled to take him into her arms. Greg didn’t seem to notice that she inadvertently brushed several of his wounds in the process. As she wrapped her arms around his back and clung onto him, he let his forehead drop onto her shoulder.

“You…You can’t be here, Sara. N-Not really.” Greg’s voice shook and cracked as he trembled against her.

“Shh, I’m here Greg,” she murmured as she stroked the back of his head.

“No. She’ll hurt you too, you h-have to go.”

“I’m alright, Greg, and I’m not going anywhere.”

The man’s torso shook; it could have been sobs, but it was likely just his labored attempts to fill his lungs. Her shoulder under his head felt wet, but it was probably sweat and blood–not tears. She knew Greg would be embarrassed about crying so she made silent excuses for him, lightly caressing his back and whispering into his ear that it was okay, that they would be all right, that he should try to calm down and breathe. She could feel his heart pounding against her own chest and tried counting, raising her wrist high enough to glance at her watch as she spoke to him.

Sara was getting one-hundred and forty beats per minute. She hoped she was counting wrong, because that would mean his heart could give out at any second. She squeezed him against her, knowing that she was hurting him, but wanting to calm him and she didn’t know how else to accomplish that. Greg didn’t resist, simply let himself be pressed closer to her. Sara stroked his back and shoulders, repeating the same requests and reassurances over and over, wanting to give him something to focus on. She only hoped that her voice was comforting to him.


	13. Wherever You Go

_My soundtrack: “Mykonos” by Fleet Foxes_

* * *

“You _lost_ her?!?”

Nick’s shout echoed throughout the halls of the station. Grissom sighed as Brass quickly ushered them into an available interrogation room and closed the door against nosy, prying ears. Nick had received a 9-1-1 page just as he dozed off in his bed for the first time in around 36 hours. The page contained little detail, only that he should report to the police station immediately.

His fury was reasonable. Two of their friends, their comrades, were missing; one of them kidnapped in the middle of a crowded diner and the other from right under their noses. If something happened to Sara, Grissom and Brass could never forgive themselves. After all the team’s experiences over the years, something needed fixing. This couldn’t keep happening.

He suddenly rounded on Brass, fists clenched. “How many more CSI's have to be hurt, kidnapped, _killed_ , before this station does something about it??”

Brass raised his hands defensively, “Believe me, Stokes. I’ll be addressing my officers about this. They should have cleared the scene more thoroughly.”

Nick seethed, but before he could retort they were all distracted by another man entering the room.

“D.B., you should be at home.” Brass noted the gray-haired man’s exasperated expression and drooped shoulders.

Russell sighed, then addressed all of them wearily: “Look guys, I know tensions are running high, but last week I had to notify Greg’s parents that their son is missing. Today, I visited Sara’s mother at the institution to tell her the same. They have her so strung out that I’m not even sure she understood me. So, if anyone has any ideas for how this can be over with sooner, I’m all ears. Otherwise, I say we all stick to the same side and work together to get our guys back.”

Nick glanced guiltily at his coworkers. He could be angry later, because D.B. was right. Right now they needed to focus on finding their friends, not pointing fingers. After taking a moment to cool off, Nick ran a hand over his still flushed face. “What now?”

“Archie’s scanning through the video files we pulled from the Harris’s home surveillance camera. There’s months of storage, but he’s going through the most recent recordings first.” Grissom tried to keep his tone optimistic.

Brass nodded. “With any luck, we’ll see Harris was visiting with his mother more recently than she says and we can catch her in a lie. Better yet, maybe the blonde woman from the bar has been there and we can get a clear enough image to run through facial recognition software.”

“Reviewing all of that footage could take days, even weeks. That’s not counting the time required by F.R.S.,” Nick pointed out. “Greg and Sara might not have that kind of time. We don’t even know if they’re still—”

“They’re alive,” Grissom interjected firmly.

“We’ll find them,” Brass added.

Nick wasn’t convinced. He paced, mind racing. This couldn’t be happening. Just _one_ of their own getting taken was already too much, and now Sara was gone too. The only thing the team had in their favor was the likelihood of finding both at the same time, since their disappearances had to be related.

“I’m going to sit on the Harris house,” Brass told them. “Every one of you that wants to stay here or at the crime lab is welcome, but if you do go home, don’t go alone. Two investigators missing in a row and I’m seeing a trend. Either way, get some rest.”

Russell nodded in agreement. “We need to be sharper than ever.”

“I’ll go help Archie look through footage,” Nick contributed. After the sharp glare from his superior, he added: “After I catch some shut-eye in the break room.”

* * *

Sara held Greg against her for over ten minutes, waiting until his heart slowed to a near-normal pace and his breathing was less ragged. Her arms and back were tiring, so she pulled back hesitantly. Greg tipped forward when she shifted, to weak to support himself. She caught him precariously; cupped his face in her hands. His eyelids were heavy, and it was clear he wouldn’t be conscious much longer. “Hey! Greg, stay with me. Who’s keeping us here? Do you know?”

He moaned as his stomach turned painfully and the room rotated on an ever-changing axis. “A-Adams,” he finally managed.

“Adams?” Sara repeated, her brow furrowing. The name itself was common, and did not immediately ring any bells. She did not miss Greg’s skin suddenly paling a few shades, and she helped him turn to the side before he began dry-heaving onto the floor. Sara braced him with an arm across the front of his shoulders as she gently stroked his back.

Greg cried out in anguish when the sharp edges of his broken ribs were disturbed by the involuntary stomach contractions. After the nausea passed he gripped Sara’s arm tightly as he struggled to catch his breath.

“S-Sisters…murder…W-Whitney…”

The case gradually came back to her. Lacey and Whitney Adams. The sisters had held a man, Thomas O’Bryan, against his will and tortured him to death. Sara was one of the investigators on the case, and had been present for the autopsy. O’Bryan had been repetitively strangled, beaten, and cut until the older sister, Lacey, went too far and killed him. Besides the fact that Greg was thankfully still alive, Sara felt a sense of déjà vu when she looked him over after remembering the case. The wounds were nearly identical.

The sisters somehow talked their attorney into allowing a joint trial because they would still be able to see each other. The older sister admitted to being the one who ultimately killed O’Bryan, and it was obvious she held an enormous influence over her little sister. The jury decided that she would get life in prison with no possibility of parole. The younger sister, Whitney, was sentenced to fifteen years for kidnapping and aiding and abetting in a murder, with possibility of parole after nine years. Whitney deserved much more time in prison; there just wasn’t proof. She would have been eligible for parole late last year. Sara hadn’t recognized Whitney because most of the trial had focused on the older sibling. Besides, the sisters had dark hair at the time of the case—ten years ago.

“What does she want with us?” The question was rhetorical. What was the obvious motive of any criminal who believed themselves wronged by the justice system? But Sara wanted to keep Greg awake. She worried that the next time he woke up, he might not be as lucid.

If he woke up again.

“R-Revenge? Both of us w-were a part of putting them away.” He was still shivering and sagged heavily against Sara’s arm.

She frowned. Greg hadn’t testified at the trial, but he had played a critical role as a lab rat in processing the DNA evidence. Was Whitney delirious enough to believe she needed to take revenge on every person even remotely involved with the case? If that was true, a lot more people were in danger. Also, the aged staining on the walls, the buckets stacked in the corner, the bars on the window; all indicated to Sara that this was not the first time the room had been utilized in this way.

Greg’s head began to roll forward and Sara quickly patted his cheek. “No, please, Greg. Don’t fall asleep.”

He coughed harshly and righted himself, slumping back against the wall. “Sorry,” he whispered.

“You’ve been gone almost a week. What have they done to you?” Again, rhetorical. For now. Sara didn’t believe she could handle that information. Not until they were out of this mess and safe again. Then, she would offer herself as a set of ears he would most definitely require throughout his recovery.

“M’fine,” he grunted dismissively, predictably.

Just like that morning in the alley years ago, Greg valued those around him, even the crime scene, over his own health. He was definitely not ‘fine’. She gently pulled him back in and embraced him. “You’re covered in blood.”

“Sh’d see th’other guy,” he slurred, tucking his face into the crook of her neck.

Sara half-laughed, half-sobbed. “I did. What did you do to his hand?”

“Bit’m.”

Greg was fading fast, but Sara believed him. Good for him…but what gave him the opportunity?

‘ _Don’t let your mind go there, Sara_ ,’ she warned herself silently.

“Well, I think _I_ broke his nose.”

Greg smiled proudly. “That’s m’girl.”

She laughed softly again, hugging him closer, and even though he couldn’t see her face he felt the warm tears on his shoulder.

“ _She thinks you’re a goner, Greg_.” Nick’s voice. Over Sara’s shoulder, Greg spotted the scorpion. It had been a while; so long that he was beginning to think there was never a scorpion in the first place.

“M’still not t’sure,” he murmured against the soft freckled skin of Sara’s shoulder.

“What’s that?” Sara asked, wondering if he was still referring to Harris’s injury.

“ _It’s almost time to make your move. It might not be the move you imagined, but let’s not forget the most important goal. Saving_ —”

“Sara.” Greg finished groggily.

“Hmm?” she responded. “I’m here.”

Greg let out a raspy sigh and became heavy against her. Sara tried to rouse him with a light shake and by repeating his name, but received no response. She lowered herself into a seated position, turning her back against the wall. She carefully pulled Greg to her until his head rested on her lap. By listening to his breathing and feeling his chest, she assured herself that he could rest relatively well in this new position on his side: right side up to keep pressure off his wounded shoulder and at least part of his rib cage.

His breaths remained shallow, but his lips were no longer that frightening blue tinge and his slack expression did not indicate pain. Sara stroked his hair lightly, eyes again traveling over his body. She noted that his rib were well-defined and wondered when he last had anything to eat or drink. He was hot to the touch but his skin dry, meaning his body no longer had the water content to waste in sweat. While the majority of his injuries were shallow abrasions, producing little blood, there were deeper cuts that were extremely concerning. They were likely infected based on the swollen red skin surrounding them, triggering his body’s fever response. She couldn’t determine the depth of those cuts without removing the clotted blood covering them, and doing so could do more harm than good. The amount of blood on the floor, his clothing, and his skin told her everything she needed to know about how much he’d lost.

Her thoughts roamed as she gazed down at him. Sara contemplated how she would get them out of here. Even if they managed to make their way through the two heavily padlocked doors and outdoors, there was the possibility of running into one of their captors. Sara knew these thoughts were all too premature considering Greg wasn’t even able to stay awake, let alone run a gauntlet of their captors’ making, then the unforgiving desert. But she needed a plan; needed to feel that she had some say in their future.

* * *

Hours passed before they had company. The minutes crept by, and even the tiniest sounds had her on edge. Sara sat awake for much of that time, not moving an inch because Greg seemed to be resting somewhat easily. She ultimately drifted off, cradling him, but was awoken when the door to the room rattled and swung open. Both of their captors entered. Sara immediately glanced down to Greg, ensuring herself that he was still with her before straightening her back and glaring at them.

Whitney—now that Sara knew her actual name she refused to think of her as ‘Amber’—wore a short skirt that showcased her petite but well-toned legs, a strapless, form-fitting top, and flashy silver heels. The woman let out a shortlaugh when she spotted Sara and Greg and clapped in entertainment.

“Would you look at that, Liam! I was so sure he was a goner. She _saved_ him,” Whitney mocked. “Do you think maybe she’s trying to make up for everything terrible she’s said and done to him over the years?”

Sara narrowed her eyes and Harris grunted in reply. He posed just inside the doorway, a golem daring Sara to try and get around him.

Deciding that for now she would play dumb and pretend she still didn’t remember Whitney, Sara tried to keep the woman talking. “Why? Why are you doing this to him? You said you were following me. Just let him go.”

Whitney ignored Sara’s question and sauntered closer as she went on with her monologue. “You see, I find it useful to unveil every single one of my secrets to a man shortly after we meet. That way there are no surprises, you know? Every boyfriend I’ve had has gone at the most a few hours without knowing the real me. And every relationship I’ve been in has been both substantial and oh, so very rewarding.” Whitney smiled fully as she said this last part.

“There are so many things wrong with what you just said,” Sara said quietly. In her lap Greg had a longer-than-normal pause in his breathing, and she stroked his hair again, trying to rouse him enough to breathe. It worked, and she let out a soft sigh of relief. “And you didn’t answer my question,” she added quickly.

“What’s the old saying? Two birds with one stone? And I disagree with you; I’m not wrong. I just have different experiences than you. Certainly, much _younger_ experiences as well.” She glanced to Harris, who smirked.

Sara risked an eye roll, hoping that Whitney wouldn’t see it due to the shadows filling the room. It was much darker now than before, and the progression of the sun throughout the day had told her that the window in the room was most likely facing east. In case this was of importance, Sara stored it in the back of her mind. “Were you done?” she asked Whitney, bored with hearing her talk.

“No.” Whitney crouched directly in front of Greg and Sara. “Every man learns to love me. They can’t live without me. They _need_ me,” she reached out a hand to touch Greg’s cheek, and Sara shielded him automatically without considering the consequences. Whitney nodded briefly at Harris and stood, stepping to the side as he strode past her and grabbed hold of Greg’s upper arm, wrenching him roughly from Sara’s grasp.

“No!” Sara yelled. She tried to cling to Greg but Harris was too strong, and the kick to the face with Whitney’s shoe didn’t much help her case. Harris dropped Greg’s limp body to the floor on the opposite side of the room and Sara groaned, struggling to stand up as she recovered from the kick.

Before she knew it, she was being forced to the ground face down and a heavy knee pressed down on the center of her back. Her breath was forced from her and the dust stirred up from the floor drifted into her eyes, forcing her to squint and tears to run. Her arms were yanked behind her and she heard and felt handcuffs clicking into place around her wrists. She briefly wondered if they were her own cuffs.

Once Sara’s arms were secured, Harris dragged her to an area nearby where Greg had been tied when she arrived. He fastened the handcuffs to a lower hook, making sure to retrieve the key to the padlock before planting a hard kick to her side and wandering back in Greg’s direction.

Trying to regain her breath, Sara tried her best to yell and wake up Greg, to warn him, “GREG!!! Look out!”

Still he lay motionless.

“Leave him alone!” Sara growled at their captors. Her mind raced. She just wanted to take their attention off Greg and didn’t care if it killed her.

* * *

_Nevada v. Adams & Adams: Jury Deliberation_

_Ten Years Ago_

“You kicked ass up there!”

Sara laughed and shook her head, but worry rapidly commandeered her features once more.

“No, really. You did great, and Nathan’s gathered a strong case.” Greg’s tone became more serious as he took a seat next to her. They were outside the courtroom, in a wide hallway contained small groups of court personnel and others associated with the side of the prosecution. Since this case was especially brutal, the court required the two sides wait in different areas to avoid emotion-driven conflict: a measure not often required. “I know this trial is tough, but you don’t need to worry. These girls are evil—”

She shot him a warning glance.

“They are! But not because of their genetics, and _not_ because of their time in the foster system.” He bumped her shoulder lightly with his own and continued in a low tone. “It’s a shit defense. They chose their actions. At every turn, the sisters could have easily chose differently. They had the opportunity and capability to be good people.”

“Violence begets violence,” Sara recited thoughtfully, now studying the tiling of the floor.

Greg sighed and leaned forward, elbows on knees as he tried to see what was so interesting on the floor. “Yeah, well,” he tried to catch her eyes. “I would completely trust _you_ to tie me up.”

“Greg!” Sara gasped and smacked his shoulder, but there was a half-smile on her face and that made Greg happy, even as he clutched his shoulder in mock-pain.

“Two hours in already,” a different voice, that of Nathan Phelps, drew their attention upward. Both stood to greet him.

Greg shook his hand tensely, then averted his gaze as Sara and the prosecutor hugged and shared a brief kiss. Phelps was a good enough guy, he supposed. He just didn’t seem the type that should be with a woman like Sara Sidle.

Taking notice of Greg’s muted jealousy, Sara pulled back from her boyfriend of three months and cleared her throat. “So, uh, any end in sight?”

Phelps shrugged. “Not any time soon. I have no idea what could be taking the jury this long. It should be an open-and-shut case.”

“There’s a lot of evidence to review,” Greg put in. “I’m sure they’ll come back with the right answer.”

“I’m sure,” Phelps nodded. “Sara, want to go grab some coffee across the street?”

She smiled gratefully. “I would love that. Greg, want to tag along?”

“Nah, thanks. I think I’ll just—” Greg gestured around the hallway. Sara’s eyes bore into him, as if activating some sort of psychic beam to read his mind. He smiled assuredly at her. “Really. I’ll call you if I hear anything before you get back.”

Still slightly suspicious, she nodded slowly, “Okay.

Phelps tugged on her hand and the two headed toward the exit leaving a forlorn-looking Greg to sit back heavily into the bench with a sigh.

* * *

_Present_

_Greg was blind,_ _his_ _eyes swollen shut, but somehow knew exactly where he was. He was back in that alley; the cracked, cool concrete damp against his back and pain reverberating through every muscle, every bone. The hits and kicks had seized_ _long ago_ _,_ _t_ _he attackers bored easily as most young homo sapiens will._ _T_ _he static crackle of_ _the police_ _radio echo_ _ed_ _from inside the Denali, the dispatcher sounding concerned_

_(“Charlie-oh-six Sanders, come in please? Back-up and bus are en route to your location”)_

_and the blood from his broken nose_ _and_ _kept dripping down the back of his throat_ _and the side of his face. His jaw felt wrong and Greg wondering if it was broken._ _He sensed that he wasn’t alon_ _e_ _and he knew whose presence he felt: Demetrius James._

‘This isn’t right,’ _Greg_ _thought_ _. Demetrius hadn’t gotten any punches or kicks in because he was dying in front of the Denali._

_But here and now, Demetrius had a second chance, and he was not going to lose interest or back down like the others. He towered over Greg, fully prepared to seek the justice he never had a chance at._

_(“—no response. Charlie-oh-six Sanders? ETA on backup is six minutes”)_

“ _Leave him alone!”_

Sara’s shout broke through Greg’s nightmare.

_This isn’t right, either. Sara wasn’t there. Not until the sun rose._

It was the panic in her voice that pulled him from unconsciousness, but the punch to the jaw jerked him all the way back to reality.

Greg groaned. Cracking open his eyes, his view upward at the warehouse ceiling and the large figure kneeling over him helped him to gradually recall his current predicament. He was no longer being held securely in Sara’s lap. He was worried but he also knew that he couldn’t move right now even if he wanted to. He couldn’t feel either of his hands, and he wondered briefly if they were still attached to him. His shoulder burned; his chest and throat felt like they were on fire. There was pressure about his neck, but he couldn’t lift his arms to pry it off. His ears rang, his jaw was numb, and the coppery taste continued to trickle to the back of his mouth. He coughed to clear his airway, but the simple act of coughing brought a sharp, painful reminder that he could, in fact, feel worse than he already did.

He was finally able to suck in enough oxygen to mostly clear his vision, and looked first at Harris, who had likely delivered the blow to his jaw and was currently menacing over him. Greg managed to turn his head slightly; his eyes searched for and landed on Sara, now across the room. When their eyes met she smiled tightly at him. It would have been a much cuter gesture if she didn’t have blood trickling down from a cut on her cheek and scuffs on the skin he could see on her sleeveless arms. Her shoulder-length hair was in disarray, and several pieces of straw clung to it. Simply the sight of her, however, brought with it a glimmer of his determination. The fact that she was trying to cheer him up told Greg that she was not seriously hurt. Not yet. They _had_ to get out of there because it wasn’t only his life on the line anymore.

Whitney’s voice came from somewhere beyond Greg’s sight. “Liam be gentle with him. I don’t think he’s got much fight left in him, and _I_ want to be the one that controls when he gives up.”

Greg heard Sara’s bitter laughter and tried to mouth ‘ _stop_ ’ to her but his jaw wouldn’t cooperate and she wasn’t paying attention anyway.

“What’s so funny?” Whitney snapped.

Sara finally got herself back under control. “I just…every time I meet a psychopath, I tell myself that no one could be worse than the most recent one, and each case outdoes the last. _You_ are completely insane.”

Greg expected retaliation and winced. He was certain that Sara’s intention had been to take attention away from him. However, Whitney simply threw a sweet smile in her direction.

“I know what you’re doing, Sara. You’ve always been witty, haven’t you? Well so have I. You might think I’m a psychopath, that I’m crazy, that I’m just out of my fucking mind. But the fact of the matter is that I’m more evolved.”

Sara had nothing to say to that but her mouth hung open in disbelief and she slowly shook her head. Greg met her eyes again and gave her a quick shake of his head, urging her to stop antagonizing their captor. She simply frowned at him then returned her glare to Whitney.

“It’s opposites day, Sara. Every time you pull some bullshit to distract me, I’ll take it out on Greg instead. He’s been here long enough to know how this works. Liam, go get the new toy.”

After Harris departed the room, Whitney knelt by Greg’s head but continued addressing Sara. “I got this new thing, and I’ve been waiting to try it out until just the right time. I think now might just be that time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!! Thanks for reading!
> 
> *3/28/20 corrected grammatical/continuity issues  
> *9/30/20 posted updated chapter


	14. The Loftiest Intelligence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of a shorter chapter here than what I've been posting lately, but I hope you enjoy!

_My soundtrack: “In Time” by Talos, “Healer” by Chromatics_

* * *

Harris lumbered back into the room and placed a metal canister near Greg, along with plastic tubing and a face mask that were attached to the canister. It reminded Sara of the oxygen tank that her paternal grandfather—a chronic smoker—used to lug around with him when he visited. But she knew there was no chance they were about to supply oxygen to Greg. Surely there were more sinister contents in the cylinder that Sara could only guess…

“It’s carbon dioxide!” Whitney trilled, quite in the manner of a game show host introducing the grand prize.

Sara wrenched at the chains, not liking where this was going. The sensation of the skin of her wrists abrading under the tight cuffs didn’t deter her from her attempts to help Greg. “You bitch!”

“Rude,” Whitney gasped. “Is that any way to speak to your hosts? Liam, shut her up for me.”

Harris tore a strip of duct tape from the roll as Sara glared at him. She tried to dodge then fight him but he grasped a handful of her hair and held her at arm’s length.

“Stop!” This yell came from Greg. Sara froze and looked to him. She was surprised when Greg’s next shout was directed at _her_ , not Harris: “Stop fighting!”

Still shocked, Sara simply stared at Greg. Harris took advantage of her distraction, slapping the tape over her mouth. She crumpled back to her knees, her mind replaying the resignation present in Greg’s eyes and hoping she’d only imaged it.

Whitney waited until Sara was silent, then continued. “You see, chloroform—that’s what we used to snatch both of you—used to be one of my favorites. But Lacey always says that we must keep up with the times and chloroform really is outdated, you know? It takes much too long to incapacitate, and it never was any good at initiating that _panic_ response. I ordered this as a present to myself, and who better to first try it out on? When I turn this knob,” she gestured to a twist-valve at the top of the tank next to where the tubing attached, “the tank will feed carbon dioxide into Greg’s lungs. Depending on how high I set the flow, the build-up of CO2 will gradually suffocate him. And since this this ‘hypercapnia’ as it’s called is to blame for the pain and distress of any disruption of breathing, Greg will feel every _second_ of it.”

The blonde nodded at Harris, and like a well-trained dog the large man positioned himself over Greg, kneeling and pinning his arms to his sides with his own legs and pressing down firmly on Greg’s shoulders. Greg struggled briefly, but with much of Harris's bulk on his midsection and arms locked in place, his options were limited. The pressure on his injured shoulder caused him to grimace in pain but he bit his tongue and remained quiet. For Sara.

“In other words, Sara, these games can last as long, or end as quickly as I want them to,” Whitney elaborated further. She picked up the mask and chased Greg’s face with it when he turned his head to the side. Harris let up on one of Greg’s shoulders and grabbed his jaw roughly, forcing him into immobility. Whitney then pressed the mask firmly over Greg’s nose and mouth and twisted the valve, triggering gas flow. Whitney glanced back at Sara and winked before returning her concentration once more to Greg and placing a palm flat on his forehead.

Greg was silent at first, clenching his eyes shut and trying to keep his breathing calm and even. Unfortunately, this did not last long, as his neurons instantly began firing their flare-guns of warning, the projectiles of which bounced off the inner walls of his skull—behind his eyes, but he could _see_ each bright flash—alerting him that

_this is wrong this is wrong this is wrong the air is wrong_

and his body’s reaction was to lurch away from the mask

_well fuck there’s a floor there_

so instead his body tensed, back arching as he began to wheeze then cough.

Sara sobbed and worked at the cuffs tirelessly. She called his name but through the duct tape it could have been any one-syllable words.

Greg’s eyes widened as he gasped for fresh air. After some time, Whitney leaned closer to Greg and watched from just inches away as his eyes began to sluggishly turn upward. When only the whites were visible, she waited an excruciating fifteen seconds before nodding and removing the mask, taking the time to turn the flow from the gas off first.

Sara held her own breath as she stared at Greg, willed him to come back, to _breathe_. His chest was stationary. After what felt like hours but was likely only seconds instead, Greg’s eyes returned to center, his mouth gaped open, and he sucked in a harsh, agonized breath.

He only had the chance to take in air three more times before the mask contacted his face again. To Sara, it looked like he tried to hold his breath, but all this accomplished was taking in that much more carbon dioxide when he did finally inhale. Immediately his body tensed, then the cycle began anew, over and over, each requiring less and less time and concentration of CO2.

Greg didn’t know how many times he had faded in and out. This was a phenomenon to which he’d grown accustomed since short-term memory and time itself tended to vanish erratically during Whitney’s ‘sessions’. His chest burned and he felt the small amount of energy and strength he had left sinking out of him, leeching down into the cold floor and dissipating there. He thought of Sara and wondered what would be done to her if he was no longer around. In this moment, Greg knew he was Whitney’s favorite plaything. This fact was the one power he held here, and he couldn’t let it slip away. As much as he knew it hurt Sara to watch him tortured, at least with him as a distraction she had a chance of surviving relatively unscathed until the team discovered their location.

He felt his consciousness withering away, and hoped that Whitney would let up soon so he could regain his awareness more rapidly. The more time spent passed out, the less ability he retained to watch out for Sara and distract Whitney and Harris.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, not wanting to give Whitney and Harris the satisfaction of seeing the fear there. A wave of nausea shook him, and he tried to turn to his side to spit out the rising bile but was physically stopped by the hands holding him down, and neurologically halted by the buildup of carbon dioxide.

_Lift the mask, please just lift the mask…_

Greg’s silent pleadings were the last thoughts that crossed his mind before the world went black, and all his worries and pain ceded.

Sara watched as Greg’s body went slack again. Her throat was hoarse from sobbing and screaming obscenities to their captors. A corner of the tape on her mouth began to lift from the motion and the perspiration.

Whitney simply murmured “oops” with a small smirk as she pulled the plastic mask away, this time for good. She didn’t believe Greg could take any more right now; she already suspected she put his body under too much stress. The blonde stood, followed by Harris, Greg remaining motionless. “Don’t worry, Sara. He’ll probably come back around, but I guess nothing can be that predictable in life, can it?”

Sara grit her teeth, “I’ll kill you.” Her words were loud, the tape failing more, so it took little to no imagination to decipher them.

Whitney grinned. “We’ll see about that. Who knows? You might. But not before I’ve thoroughly used up my little pet here,” she nudged Greg’s side with a shoe, “and certainly not until I’ve made _your_ life a living hell.”

‘ _You’re doing a decent job at that already_ ,’ Sara thought as she glared back.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” Whitney clarified before turning on her heel to retreat to the main area of the building. “Try to get some rest. You’re going to need it.”

When their captors left the room and swung the door closed between them and she heard the padlock secure the handle, Sara thought that Greg was still not breathing. Her heart threatened to break it way through her rib cage and her vision blurred with welling tears of sorrow. She refused to blink them away, eyes locked on Greg lying on his back across the room. Specifically, she watched his chest, but could not see any rise and fall.

It took several long minutes of waiting and hoping before surrender reined and Sara curled onto her side on the ground, arms still uncomfortably secured behind her back. She awkwardly used the floor’s rough texture to further peel the tape from her mouth, then grasped the loose flap with her knees and fully removed it. She faced Greg’s lifeless body and began to cry. Sobs wracked her frame as any lingering hopes of her friend waking up trickled away like the last bit of water swirling into a drain. Sara might never get out of here alive, but with Greg gone she found herself worrying about that possibility less and less.

Sara must have cried herself to sleep because when she next opened her eyes, her pupils struggled to adjust to the complete darkness now encompassing the room and the fog swirling through her head. She finally made out Greg’s form, now only a vague outline but obviously in the same position as when she last saw him. The recent events crashed back in an atomic wave of sorrow and regret.

 _Greg died without knowing how I feel about him,_ she thought drearily. It was Sara’s own fault, and that made it even worse. She had declined every date invitation, treasured but dodged every compliment, took in and utilized his friendship while simultaneously ignoring his true feelings for her. So many years wasted. Years that Sara spent chasing a dream that had been taken from her at a young age.

Although their friendship worked well, the date requests eventually dwindled then halted completely and the flirting mellowed. What else could be expected? Sara could not pinpoint the exact moment she developed deeper feelings for Greg; she suspected they may have been there all along. She cursed herself now for running from them. But she knew he would be there for her no matter the circumstances. All she had to do was call or simply give him that _look_ and he’d jump to her side. She’d taken a friend for granted, and that was something that Sara promised herself long ago to never do again.

Sara drew her legs in to herself against the chill and started to sob again.

From across the room came a faint moan, then a hoarse whisper: “ _Opp med hodet_ , Hojem.”

Sara scrambled to her knees. The handcuffs clinked against the chains they were attached to and her muscles protested the sudden movement after laying on the concrete for so long. She hadn’t heard anyone come in and she was positive that she would have, even asleep, nor had she seen any movement in the shadows since waking up.

_And that almost sounds like—_

“Greg?” Sara questioned tremulously, softly.

Another moment of silence, then—much to Sara’s astonishment—a response: “Hey, Sara.”

The voice was strained, scratchy, and weak, but it was without doubt _his_ voice. Sara wouldn’t have put it past Whitney or Harris to mess with her like that after Greg died. She exhaled sharply, both incredibly relieved and in disbelief. She took a couple of deep breaths, hesitant to voice her thoughts aloud. 

“Did you hang up?” Greg ventured, and this time concern fringed his tone. Sara was unsure if he meant to use a telephone term, but either way she got the idea. He sounded worried she snuck from the room during that small silence…or perhaps had never been there.

“I’m still here,” Sara reassured him hastily. “I thought, I thought you were dead.”

“Oh. Yeah, me too.” Greg coughed harshly after speaking this time. She hoped that their captors hadn’t heard him. It was likely a safe bet that they might come back in sooner knowing their toys were awake.

Sara couldn’t imagine what he had been through since he was taken nearly a week ago. The fact that he had survived up to this point, let alone could carry on a reasonably coherent conversation was a testament to his courage and determination to make it through this. But nature bows to no man, however brave. Greg’s injuries would catch up to him, had already begun, and Sara worried that the odds were stacked against them. He might not last through another of Whitney’s sadistic games.

“Greg, can you move?”

“ _In the summertime_ ,” Greg sang.

“What?”

“ _Night Moves_. Great song.” Another coughing fit. “Although my Nana once told me that the song was about shitting yourself in your sleep, and I never heard it the same way again.”

Sara snorted, unable to help herself. “And now neither will I. Okay, I think you might have a concussion, Greg.”

“At least three.”

Frustrated, Sara pulled at her restraints. “I want to check you out, but I’m stuck over here. Do you think you can crawl to me? I don’t want you to stand.” Greg had gained additional injuries since she last assessed him, but mostly Sara needed him nearer. She still couldn’t believe that he was alive and wanted to touch him, to feel the proof for herself.

“If Sara Sidle wants to ‘check me out’ then we’re gonna make it happen.”

Sara smiled. It reassured her somewhat to hear bits and pieces of his normal, quirky self. Although come to think of it, when _had_ Greg last been himself? It hadn’t been any specific moment but a series of events that molded the quieter, withdrawn person he was now. She certainly had been present for many of those events, and still she somehow missed his transformation. Why was he now retreating to his old self?

“I just want you closer. I’m cold.” A cheap move on Sara’s part, but if it got him moving it was worth it. Besides, it wasn’t a lie: the desert night’s chill seeped through the cement walls and the room was quite cold.

A fleeting hesitation. Of course Greg wanted to do as she asked. He wanted to hold her forever, keep her warm, breathe in her scent but only if that’s what _she_ wanted. It was a matter of yards between the two but it might as well have been a football field. Movement would prove a challenge considering his limbs felt like Jell-O. “I-I can try.”

“That’s all I’m asking. _Be careful_. If you think it’s too much, just stop.” Sara could see better now. She wasn’t sure if it was due to her eyes adjusting, or due to increased light filtering through the room’s tiny window.

_Is it really morning already?_

She watched fretfully as Greg reached out arm after arm and gradually dragged himself toward her. He stopped halfway to her to attempt to catch his breath, but this only ended in another coughing fit which left him more winded. He spit blood onto the floor and hoped that it was still too dark for Sara to notice. She did, but said nothing.

The rest of his journey to her took much longer than the first half. He stopped again less than a yard from her, rested his head on his arms and coughed into the dirty floor. This sent up small plumes of dust that triggered more coughing. Sara scooted as close to him as the chain would allow and laid on her side. Greg was still, save the ragged wheezes that shook his shoulders. She wanted to take him into her arms, but she settled for carefully resting her forehead against his.

At her touch, Greg jumped and Sara murmured an apology. He raised his head slightly to peer at her, and she gave him a warm smile. “It’s just me.”

He was clearly fading in and out because there was a glimmer of fear and confusion before his features softened once more. The two were only inches apart and before she could stop herself Sara planted a gentle kiss onto his forehead. She was so glad to see him, grateful that he was alive. Now, she just needed to keep him that way until help arrived or they had opportunity to escape.

Greg’s eyes closed when her lips grazed him, chin resting heavily on his forearms, and he looked like he could be sleeping peacefully. However, his breaths came in shallow huffs, and the bruises and cuts across his face, neck, and torso reminded Sara that there could be little that was restful about him.

Sara worried about Greg losing consciousness again, selfishly because she would be left emotionally unaccompanied in this place with him asleep. There was also the very real possibility that he might not wake up this time. She whispered his name and nudged his arm with her chin. “You should sing to me.”

Greg let out a sound that could have been a laugh, “It won’t be pretty.”

“I’m only asking for a distraction.”

“That you’ll get,” he confirmed ironically. After a minute or two, Greg began to sing again. “ _I was a dandy in your ghetto with a Snow White smile…_ ”

She frowned and stared at him. His voice was tired, scratchy, and mostly tuneless but if he kept going it told her he was awake, _alive_.

“ _I've got an ‘F’ and a ‘C’ and I got a ‘K’ too, and the only thing missing is a bitch like 'U'…_ ”

Sara laughed lightly, “Excuse me?”

The corners of his mouth turned up faintly. “Marilyn Manson.”

“Marilyn Manson? _That’s_ your comfort music?”

“Why not? What’s yours?”

“I guess I’ve never really thought about it. Maybe Enya?”

A quiet groan escaped from parted lips. “We can’t be friends anymore.”

Sara waited tensely as his body was racked with another series of coughs. Uttering small reassurances here and there was all she could do to ease his suffering. His lips turned dark blue and she frowned, tried to catch his eyes and his attention. “Greg? Look at me please.”

He met her gaze and he was panicking. His lungs were barely moving any air, and the contractions from coughing had his broken ribs and sore muscles on fire. The last thing he wanted to do was die in front of Sara, but it seemed inevitable.

“It’s alright, sweetie. Just breathe with me, in through your nose and out through your mouth.” She demonstrated several times until he copied her. His breaths started to come easier. but the blue tinge to his lips alarmingly lingered.

Greg gingerly rolled onto his side and she kissed his forehead again. He shivered and shifted closer to her, and they were parallel to and facing each other. He draped an arm around her, then raised and tucked his head into the crook of her neck.

“Thank you.”

Sara felt more than heard the words against her skin. She pressed herself against his body because she couldn’t hold him. The heat that emanated from him quickly warmed her. Greg’s head became heavy, and Sara knew he lost consciousness. This time, she was unable to wake him for hours.


	15. If You Want to Get Out Alive (Run for Your Life)

_My soundtrack: “Blame” by Bastille, “Your Love is an Island” by Talos_

* * *

Greg’s awareness stirred when a sharp jab to his previously dislocated shoulder sent an eruption of renewed pain coursing down his arm and across his chest. He feigned sleep and rode it out, accustomed to Whitney rousing him in this fashion for her games. A voice muttered his name urgently, repeatedly, and he knew sleep still had a grip on him because it sounded like Sara.

He drifted leisurely deeper into oblivion as soon as the agony dulled to a faint ache. He hoped it would stay that way if he remained completely motionless. Some sensations did linger stubbornly: his chest burned, there was a tightness around his throat, and his windpipe felt like it could double as a coffee stirrer. The desert heat had again taken hold outside and seeped into the room. It exuded in palpable waves from the walls, ceiling, and even the floor. Greg felt feverish but his skin was clear of sweat. ‘ _The well’s run dry,_ ’ he thought bleakly.

“Greg! They’re coming. _Please_ wake up.”

The persistence and rising volume of this last plea dragged Greg from the murky depths to the blinding light of consciousness, where he surfaced with a jolt and a gasp. He looked up, saw Sara crouched over him. Memories from the previous day, including her arrival, returned to him in a rush. His mind wasn’t playing tricks on him, not this time. The voice really belonged to her. Sara was now here with him…which meant her life was unquestionably in danger.

He groaned miserably and squinted up at her as she prodded him. Then she shook him, hard, and the flaring pain and nausea that movement triggered cleared his vision slightly. ‘ _Why are you hurting me?_ ’ he tried to implore but couldn’t yet find his voice.

Sara heard the main door to the building opening and closing nearly ten minutes ago. Since then she had tried to rouse Greg with no success until, since they were still next to each other on the floor, she started bumping him with her shoulder. She hated to do something she knew hurt him, but she wanted Greg to at least be alert when their captors entered. He finally focused on her, reached to grasp onto her as if to tell her to stop.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I need you to hear me. We can’t let them separate us,” she pressed, seeing her words were finally getting through to him. “Can you stay awake for me?”

To her amazement, he nodded stiffly and managed to roll to his back. In contrast, sitting up was an action that his body refused for now. Greg collapsed back, winded from just that small effort. Sara wished she could help him but there was little she could do. The door unlatched and swung open. Whitney entered on her own. She laughed when she noticed that Greg had somehow made it over to Sara. “You know, I admire his determination.”

Whitney crossed the room, snagging one of the chairs and bringing it over to them. When she took a seat, the woman had positioned herself so close to Greg that her shoe brushed his foot. The keys that clipped to her belt loop jingled against the seat of the chair, catching Greg’s eye. He was sure the chain held the keys for both doors, and from the looks of it the handcuffs as well. An idea sprang into his mind. He glanced to Sara, but she was too focused on Whitney to notice. She poised herself over him as much as she could with her hands still uselessly pulled together at the small of her back.

“He really is a fighter,” Whitney went on. “None of my other relationships made it this long. The previous record was four days. Can you believe that?”

Sara said nothing, but Greg felt her heart thudding hard where her chest pressed against him. He knew she was frightened despite her steadfast exterior. He wished he could be the one shielding her instead of the other way around. 

“I almost had him. I swear he was _this_ close to giving up. But then we bring you here for a visit, and it’s like a goddamn miracle! He’s got that fire back in his eyes. I think we’re ready for more fun. What do you say? Sara, I’m going to have you pick the next game. I’ll give you a few choices.” Whitney leaned back in her chair. “Choice number one: it’s been some time since Greggy here had a bath, and I’m thinking he needs another. _You_ even choose what we use: hose, or bathtub. Last time he really seemed to enjoy the tub and, but mixing things up can be fun too.”

Sara shuddered at the implications behind those words, livid but trying to be non-antagonistic.

“Choice number two: Greg gets more artwork carved into him.” The blonde pulled the knife from a pocket, pulled it from its small sheath, and turned it in her hands admiringly. “The catch here is that you also pick _who_ paints it. Me or you?”

Greg sensed that Sara was rapidly approaching her breaking point. He felt it in the way that she tensed against him and saw it in the muscles in her pale cheeks which flexed repetitively. The knife complicated matters somewhat but his chance—that one little twinkle of light in an otherwise questionable future—was slipping away.

“Choice number three…”

Greg caught Sara entirely off-guard by propping himself up onto his elbows and brushing his lips across hers. “I love you,” he told her quietly, then kicked out with both of his legs. His ankles caught and hooked the inside of one of the chair legs, and with an extra thrust, Greg successfully flipped the chair. Whitney and her seat crashed to the side, the blonde letting out a yelp of surprise. She was clearly taken aback after believing that Greg was weak enough to leave untied.

Whitney seemed a bit stunned from the fall so before she had any chance to recover, Greg launched himself on top of her. In the same motion, he snatched and tore the keychain from her belt loop. He tossed them to Sara with a flick of his wrist and gave her a meaningful glance over his shoulder. Then he refocused on Whitney, who did not give any indication she witnessed the handover. He laid himself across her struggling body and worked on holding her down.

Sara stared at the keys where they landed only inches from her stomach, then finally maneuvered and shoved them behind her. She was still in shock over what just happened. Minutes ago, Greg could not even sit up let alone tip a chair and hurl himself onto Whitney.

Greg, on the other hand, already felt his burst of strength withering away. He got some hits in, but mostly focused on preventing her from getting out from under him as well as blocking himself from her flailing limbs. Whitney _was_ getting beat up, but most of her injuries were self-inflicted from scratching and hitting him. She shrieked at the top of her lungs like a wild animal caught in a trap.

Sara was caught between her concern for Greg and her struggle with the keychain. She started to try the smaller keys one by one. From what she could tell, there were at least four that may be able to free her. Sara’s hands shook and her fingers fumbled. The first key did not turn. Before she tried the second, Harris stormed into the room.

He had evidently been alerted by the sounds of struggle, especially Whitney’s screams. He looked groggy and annoyed as if he had just awoken, and wasn’t wearing any shoes. Confusion, disbelief, then anger crossed his features as he gradually took in the situation and realized that the captive had the upper hand.

A flicker of reflected light drew Greg’s attention near Whitney’s head: the knife. It must have dropped there in the fall. The woman followed his eyes and both reached for the knife but she managed to grab it first. She gripped the handle of the knife in her left hand and jabbed it at his face. He raised an arm to block, felt the knife slice through the layers of his forearm. When she drew back to try again, he snagged her wrist and slammed her hand into the floor, causing her to drop the weapon.

“Greg, look out!” Sara shouted when Harris started toward Greg. She swore when she discovered the second key was also a bust.

Harris closed the gap between the doorway and the struggling pair in a few short strides. He leaned over and grabbed a handful of Greg’s hair, yanking him upwards. Greg tried to cling onto Whitney, not willing to relinquish his attack on her just yet.

But the bartender was much stronger and Greg had already tapped his strength during his attack on Whitney. He was flung to the ground on the other side of the fallen chair. He began to push himself up but Harris planted an enormous kick to his side, just under his arm. Sara winced when an audible crack echoed off the walls and Greg crumpled back to the floor.

Whitney had scrambled to her feet, hair tussled, legs and arms scraped, and several areas on her face and arms already beginning to bruise. She wiped a streak of blood from a split in her bottom lip. She nodded at Harris as if granting permission to do as he pleased, then stormed from the room.

Harris booted Greg in the shoulder, rolling him onto his back, then hacked a wad of foul-smelling spit onto his torso. Greg grit his teeth and turned his gaze upward to meet Harris’s. He mostly looked disgusted, but then he began to laugh: a hoarse, weak laugh that inevitably ended in a racking cough that went on until he held his ribs in anguish. He finally managed to speak between heaving breaths, “You know…that’s not…not the first time some…one’s spit on me.”

“You will apologize to Amber,” Harris informed him.

Greg’s smile vanished. “I am not apologizing…to that fucking… _bitch._ ”

Harris kicked Greg in the side again and the younger man stopped talking. Dismissing the male captive, Harris then meandered towards Sara, his face grim and flushed with anger. She told herself there wasn’t a heated excitement there as well. She had just inserted the third key but froze when Harris turned from Greg, she stilled. The last thing she needed was to lose the chance Greg entrusted to her just because Harris heard her jingling the keys like an invalid. Fortunately, before Harris could reach her, a look of pain crossed his features and he looked down, hopping on one foot. “Ouch! Mother _fucker_ stung me!”

Whitney screamed for him. He narrowed his eyes at Sara as if to say he wasn’t done with her, then turned on his heel and limped briskly out of the room.

Leaving the door open behind him.

Sara heard Whitney yell more at Harris when he reached the main area of the warehouse, but there was no way to tell how long she would be distracted. That third key turned and the handcuffs loosened around her wrists. In disbelief, she dropped the cuffs and lurched toward Greg. Her movements were less than graceful; her legs were numb and wobbly from kneeling on the hard floor, and she ended up stumbling and falling halfway there. She scrambled the rest of the way to him on her hands and knees.

One of her hands landed in a warm liquid, and Sara gasped when she looked down and saw the puddle of blood under Greg’s arm. The cut was deep and spanned across the fleshy part of his forearm. Sara used the fingers of her left hand to check his heartrate on his wrist as she laid her right palm lightly on his chest. His heart was beating, and he even groaned when she touched him. His breathing sounded terrible: Greg was rattling and wheezing heavily.

Working quickly, Sara tore a long strip from the bottom of her shirt and tied it around this newest wound. Cinching it down earned a pitiful whimper from him, and his eyes fluttered open. She placed a hand on each side of Greg’s face and tried to catch his attention.

The yelling from outside the room continued.

“Greg!” Sara slapped the side of Greg’s face and his eyes focused on her. “We have to go while they’re distracted.”

He said nothing yet, but the look he gave her said everything. Sara’s heart sunk when she realized what he expected of her.

“No,” she stated simply, shaking her head in denial.

“You and I b-both know I’m not w-walking out of here.” He grimaced and swallowed thickly.

“I’m not leaving without you.”

“Then, we both die. ‘S no option, Sara.” He coughed, choking, and Sara helped him turn to his side. Gravity brought blood dribbling from between his lips.

As soon as he stopped coughing, Sara hooked her arms under his and tried to haul him up. He did attempt to help at first, but let out a cry of pain and Sara sobbed in frustration. She carefully let him back down, nearly falling on him. “Please, _please_. They’ll kill you.”

And what would happen to him if she stayed? More torture? He wouldn’t make it much longer in that scenario, either. If she could get out, find help, and come back with more people…

Whitney’s yells had begun to quiet.

Greg took hold of Sara’s hand, squeezed it hard. Tears of pain, sorrow, or both had welled in his eyes. “ _Go_. Find help.”

If she stayed and tried to fight their captors, it was two against one (basically three against one since Harris had the bulk of at least two people). This situation would be a whole lot fairer if that ‘one’ had a gun, and Sara did not. The chances were good that she would be immediately overpowered and back in the same position.

She bit her bottom lip as she nodded slightly. “I _will_ be back for you.”

Relieved, Greg nodded against the ground. “I know you will.”

Sara leaned down and kissed him, lingered there momentarily as silent tears ran down her cheeks. She sniffed, finally pulling away, “If I find out that you gave up at any point, don’t think I won’t kick your ass.”

A corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. “Noted.”

With one last gentle touch to his cheek and another kiss on his forehead, Sara stood and made the hardest decision she’d ever had to make: she left Greg dying on the floor, and she ran.

* * *

As soon as Sara took off, Greg shut his eyes tightly in an attempt to both brace himself through each pain-riddled breath, and to hold back the tears he knew were about to fall. He listened with dread that she might not make it out the front door, and he would soon hear the struggle as she was caught. After a moment of quiet, he heard Whitney’s ridiculing demand: “ _Get her, you dumb bastard!_ ”

More footsteps pounded away, followed by silence, and he briefly wondered if his captors had left him alone. Not that he was much of a threat. But he should have known better, and when footsteps padded up to him, he held his breath.

“That was a gutsy move,” Whitney’s voice, hoarse from her tantrum, came from above him.

“Are you going to kill me now?” Greg wondered.

A giggle. “No, honey. You’re too much fun.”

Still on his side, his ribcage screamed in pain but he needed to be positioned this way due to the constant trickle of blood into the back of his throat. Greg glanced up and smiled when he saw the damage he had done to Whitney. Her lower lip was split near the middle, and as she watched him she wiped a trickle of blood from under it with a wrist. Her lip, as well as the area surrounding one eye, was already beginning to swell.

Whitney frowned at him. “What exactly do you have to smile about?”

This only made him smile wider. He must have some sort of lingering damage from all the hits to the head he’d received lately because Greg knew he should stay quiet, should care that his life was in danger. But all he could do was chant in his head: _I got you, bitch. Sara got away, she’s going to get help, and they’ll come save me. You will spend the rest of your miserable life in prison. And, oh yeah, I made you_ bleed _._

Bitterly observing how he was positioned below her but still seemed to be looking _down_ on her, Whitney walked off with a huff. She began to gather some of the loose rope from the ground. “Don’t get your hopes up too much, Greg,” she reminded him over her shoulder. “Sara is on foot might be faster than Sara, but she’s not at the top of her game, and doesn’t know where the hell she is. It won’t take him long to catch up with her, and soon they’ll be back here. Then you can watch as I punish Sara for trying to escape. _Or_ I’ll have Sara watch as I punish you for getting her the keys, and for attacking me.”

Greg hoped she was wrong about Sara not getting away. He kept his eyes on her, occasionally coughing up and spitting out another bit of blood and saliva. His breathing was strained and raspy, but fast as though he just couldn’t catch up—and that was exactly how he felt.

“You’re a scientist, right Greg? How much medical training did you have to complete for your job? Exactly how many days can a person survive without water?”

_‘An otherwise healthy person? Seven at the most,’_ Greg thought meekly.

As if reading his mind, Whitney nodded. “And that’s only if the person’s in good health otherwise. All that you’ve had is that one ice cube I gave you. You are surviving on borrowed time.”

Greg wondering how he could use this fact to his advantage. He rested his head on the ground, fatigued. “You’re, uh, gonna have to give me water if you want to k-keep me around.”

“You have a valid point, and one that I’ve already considered. I’ve decided to give you eight ounces of water today.”

Greg scoffed. He took notice now of the mug in her hands when she approached him. He licked dry lips with a dry tongue. Water sounded like bliss, but he forced himself to look away. “That’s v-very generous of you, but it’s not gonne get me far…‘m severely dehydrated, and the continued blood loss…y-you’d have to account for all that. I think I’d need at least twenty times that just to make it…another day.”

“Yeah well, let’s start with this and see where it gets us,” Whitney shot back, apparently not appreciated his shared knowledge. She set the cup down next to him then crouched by his feet. Greg tried to scramble away when she started to encircle the rope around his ankles. “Stop,” she ordered. “I have to keep you honest until Liam’s back.”

Still, the thought of the rope once more tied around him, rubbing against his raw flesh…

If Greg ever got out of here, he didn’t think he could ever touch rope again. Or chains, for that matter.

“Keep struggling and I will kill Sara. Wherever she is, I’ll track her down and make her _beg_.”

Greg froze at that threat, knowing she was insane enough to mean it. He nodded briefly to let her know they had an understanding. When she was done securing his ankles, Whitney left him alone. She closed and locked the door this time. He eyed the cup where it stood, inches from him.

It was a blue coffee mug. A cartoon was printed into the side: a haggard-looking man in a business suit, drinking straight out of a coffeepot. There were large block letters above the illustration:

**THE CONTENTS OF THIS CUP SAVE LIVES**

and, what a dumb coffee cup, but it felt ironic because it _could_ be a correct statement in his instance.

The whole point behind this whole train of thought: Greg couldn’t see through the sides to see the color of the contents. Would she have put something besides water in it? From what he remembered, the ice cube she’d given him before hadn’t been tainted.

Finally, his thirst won out and he latched onto the mug’s handle with a quavering hand.

The first few sips were agonizing, seemingly burning his throat as he swallowed. Greg coughed up that first small volume that he had ingested, and the water was now tinged pink. When the cup was empty, he curled around himself, hugged his knees, and waited.

* * *

The escape had been as incident-free as Sara could have asked. While sprinting out of the room, she could still pinpoint the direction that Whitney’s angry voice was coming from, so she knew that their captors should be far enough from both the room she and Greg occupied and from the front entrance of the warehouse.

As expected, Whitney and Harris stood several yards away. Whitney was still speaking animatedly. The two were slightly to her left, and the front door, also gloriously agape, was a clear ten-yard dash to the front and right.

Harris noticed first and dumbly pointed at Sara’s fleeting figure.

Whitney followed his gaze, swore. “ _Get her, you dumb bastard!_ ”

He took off running after Sara. When she was almost to the main door, her eyes picked up a lovely sight: a cell phone placed on a table just next to the front door. She snagged it with her right hand as she dashed into the stifling heat.

Sara quickly got her bearings. She located the side of the building that contained the window of the room and ran in roughly a northwest direction. Her muscles protested the sudden exercise but she ignored their complaints. Greg was her inspiration. His life depended on her. If he could help Sara escape in _his_ condition, she could ignore everything else until he was safe.

For a long time, she heard heavy footsteps not far behind her, as well as Harris’s pants and grunts fading gradually as he tired. Sara never chanced a look behind her until the sounds vanished completely. No one was behind her. She dodged to the left and ran several yards to a large creosote bush that would some provide cover while she paused.

Sara crouched down, trying to calm her panting breaths as she fumbled with the cellphone, which she had clutched tightly in her hand as she ran. It was an old flip phone, but it didn’t look like a disposable phone brand and she was optimistic that it might have GPS. She was relieved to see it was fully charged. However, it had no service.

“Shit.” She flipped it closed and clasped her hands around it. This action brought Sara’s attention to the red, raw scrapes around her wrists. She realized her watch was gone; it must have snapped and fallen off when she struggled against the cuffs back in that room. Not that it mattered, because the phone had a digital clock.

But it _did_ matter...

* * *

_Crime Lab Christmas Party_

_Four years ago_

“Your Secret Santa says that’s a very naughty habit.”

Sara nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard Greg’s voice just behind her. The guy could be so sneaky. The cigarette was still in her hand and she let it fall to the pavement and ground it down with her shoe, flashing Greg a guilty look. “Sorry.”

“He also asked me to give you this.” He withdrew a small, wrapped gift from his pocket and held it out to her.

Surprised, she accepted it. “Happy Birthday?” Sara smiled after getting a closer look at the wrapping paper.

Greg shrugged, “Nature loves recyclers.”

She laughed. “Tell my secret Santa I said thanks.”

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Ugh, Greg. You know I don’t do so well at this holiday stuff…”

“Oh, I know. All you need to do is open it. Here, I won’t watch.” Greg turned and looked back at the crime lab, tucking his secretly sweaty hands into the pockets of his coat to shield them from the chilly night.

“Fine,” Sara rolled her eyes, but laughed despite herself. She made quick work of the birthday cake wrapping paper, revealing a box, which she opened.

From their current position in the visitor parking lot, Greg could hear a faint bass line from inside the building and was able to catch glimpses of the party. Since the schedule of a Crime Scene Investigator was anything but predictable, it had been a custom to hold the lab’s annual holiday party onsite. That way, people could come and go when they had time, on or off shift. Shadows danced behind blinds, backlit by the ridiculous amount of Christmas light strands that some idiot had hung up in the lab this year because he’d finally talked the supervisors into letting him decorate.

Greg smiled to himself. He was actually quite proud of his work.

There was a small gasp behind him, and he turned.

“Please don’t tell me this was expensive.” She held up the silver watch.

He laughed. “Not at all.”

Sara narrowed her eyes at him.

“Seriously! Actually, an online watch dealer sent me the wrong one on accident and told me to keep it for the trouble.”

She still didn’t believe him. “Okay. Well, either way it’s gorgeous. I love it.”

“Good,” Greg smiled gently at her, flushing slightly. He turned again and started back to the building. “Now, come back inside. Rumor has it that karaoke is about to start up, and someone _may_ have put in a request for a duet of ‘Promiscuous’.”

“Please tell me you’re not serious.” Sara hurried to catch up, watch in hand. It really was beautiful. She turned it over and saw the butterfly etched into the back. Each of its wings held an elaborate letter ‘s’. This was _not_ a wrong order. She donned it, suddenly feeling an odd fluttering in her chest.

Perhaps she owed it to Greg to sing karaoke with him after all.

* * *

_Valley of Fire_

_Present day_

Sara momentarily dropped her forehead, resting it against her clasped hands. She took a few deep breaths before having another look around. There was still no sign of Harris. She tucked the phone away securely in a pocket and started off again in the same direction. This time she did not run but walked with intention to preserve energy.

She occasionally checked the phone for a signal but after two hours of walking had yet to have any luck. Despite her resolve to find help, Sara still couldn’t avoid the flashbacks she was experiencing. Stumbling across the desert, exhausted and dehydrated. Just like waking up in the van after being kidnapped, this scenario also reminded her of the Natalie Davis incident. At least her arm wasn’t broken this time. She shivered in spite of the heat.

In her head she began to recite the multiplication tables

_one times one is one one times two is_

on and on until she suspected some were accidentally skipped, and started over. The sun beamed onto her, crept gradually to her front and now she was nearly blinded. The sweat trickled down every bare patch of her skin. The cellphone had yet to pick up any signal

_eight times five is forty eight times seven is fifty-six—wait, shit_

and every time Sara checked the phone’s screen the battery was much lower than before.

Finally, a glimmer ahead of her. Sara quickened her pace. If this was just a mirage…

She reached the very real pavement at the very real roadside and dropped to her knees, again pulling the cellphone from her pants pocket. She flipped it open and saw that it finally had service—only one bar—but the sight of that single bar nearly made Sara kiss the phone’s screen.


	16. Humanity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I needed to post this chapter or else I never would! Enjoy!

_My soundtrack: “In Cold Blood” by Alt-J, “Roads Untraveled” by Linkin Park_

* * *

“ _You’re such a moron_!”

Whitney was yelling again. The only surprising part of that was that she stopped in the first place. She continued around an hour after Harris ran out to chase Sara. The main door opened and closed when he returned, and judging by the bits and pieces Greg could pick up through the door, Sara _had_ escaped.

He was relieved—a feeling he nearly forgot existed. Of course, she wasn’t in the clear just yet, but Sara had survived the desert before and he was certain she could pull it off again. She was one of the strongest people he knew.

There were more sounds: shuffling of items, drawers slamming, then Whitney asked Harris about a cellphone.

“It was right there,” Harris replied. He sounded short of breath and quite beleaguered. “She must have grabbed it when she ran out.”

Greg smiled. _Nice job, Sidle._

Whitney let out a screech that reverberated through the door. “We have to get out of here!”

The exchange gradually grew louder as its participants approached the door and worked on the lock. Their remaining captive shuddered and curled further into himself despite the heat in the room.

“You know she won’t make it out there long enough to be rescued,” Harris asserted wearily as they made their way into the room. “It’s too hot and she had a pillowcase over her head when I drove her here so she has no idea where she is. And that’s _if_ she can find service on that shitty phone. We don’t have anything to worry about.”

“But _if_ they find her, Liam, they will be here _very_ quickly.” Whitney enunciated the words as if she were teaching math to a doorknob. “Cops do not take this kind of thing lightly. Do you want to get caught with him? This room? If you have any good explanations, I’m all ears.”

Harris grunted. “I guess we should get out of here, then.”

Whitney was silent. Greg’s eyes were tightly closed and his foggy mind invented all sorts of evil things she might be preparing behind his back.

He heard heavy shuffling before Harris swore loudly. Greg’s body twitched instinctively.

“I need to go to a hospital for this bug sting. I think it’s infected or something.”

“Your gross foot is the last thing on my mind. Suck it up,” Whitney spat. “Besides, you said it was a scorpion, and there aren’t any _deadly_ scorpions in Nevada, so you’ll be just fine.”

Lighter footsteps allowed Greg to track her as she paced the floor inches from his back. The dust stirred up from that small amount of movement triggered Greg to cough, giving himself away. Fortunately, his captors did not seem to care that he was awake.

“We’re going to have to switch out vehicles,” the woman finally decided. “They’ll be looking for the van. I know a guy, has a junkyard about ten miles north. He’ll keep the van in his garage, part it out, give us a different car for it. And then we can use that service road that runs almost parallel to I-15, head north.”

“I like my van,” the bartender mumbled.

She ignored him. “Bring Greg outside and get him settled in the van while I grab some things. Make sure he allows us to travel in peace—whatever it takes. But Liam? At least _try_ not to kill him.”

After a short pause and an audibly reluctant sigh, Harris approached and wrapped a meaty hand around Greg’s right wrist. He dragged him across the floor by his arm, and the stretching on his injured shoulder and across his ribs made Greg cry out in pain. He was hauled out of the room in this fashion, through the main area of the warehouse, and out the front doors. The sunbaked gravel and sand burned and abraded his bare skin the entire way, but he didn’t have the ability to follow of his own accord. He was then dropped to the ground next to the van as Harris unlocked and slid open the rear door.

Harris still had a substantial limp, and the foot that had been stung was so swollen it could barely fit into his boot. The laces were slackened and remained untied to accommodate it. Greg had no doubt that the man _did_ need medical attention.

Sara would send help to the _warehouse_. If Greg was taken from it, his chances of being rescued plummeted if not vanished. Greg desperately needed to delay them. So desperately, in fact, that he could ignore the fact that the desert ground was currently scalding his side as he appealed quietly to the bartender.

“You don’t have to go down with her.”

It was a last-ditch effort to win over Harris, and not a very solid one. It wasn’t as if they were friends, but they’d had a few conversations here and there at the bar. In those exchanges, Greg sensed a decent amount of _humanity_ in the guy. He couldn’t have imagined that.

“I know what you’re doing,” Harris stated as he leaned into the doorway to move some things around in the back of the van.

“All I’m doing is telling you that it’s not too late. She’s the one that orchestrated all of this, isn’t she? You could still get off easy if you give yourself up now.”

Harris finally turned back to Greg after making room for him in the van. He was now holding a wooden baseball bat in his hands. “If you sit still for this it will be less painful. There’s a pressure point on the side of the neck I heard about; I’m going to aim for that.”

“No! No, don’t do that, please. Just listen to me,” Greg held up his left arm shakily in a beseeching fashion. “Or _don’t_ turn yourself in. Let’s just take the van and go. You and me. We’ll go to the hospital, and you can have something done about that scorpion sting. Looks like it hurts like hell. Just tell them you found me on the road or something. I won’t say anything about your involvement. We can both—”

“The cops are already onto me. I’m a wanted man, although I guess you wouldn’t know that because you’ve been, well, otherwise occupied. Even if I _wanted_ out of this, there is no way out now,” Harris looked up quickly as Whitney exited the building, carrying the few items that she wanted to bring with her. One was the carbon dioxide setup.

Please.” Greg might have been crying if he had the moisture in his body to produce tears. “You don’t need to do this. I-I won’t fight, I’ll shut up.”

“If it means anything, kid,” Harris muttered under his breath as he raised the bat, “I wouldn’t have made you suffer this long.”

The bat descended and Greg knew no more.

* * *

By the time Grissom’s conversation with Sara was disconnected, the call’s location had already been triangulated and department heads notified. Fortunately, only one old warehouse existed in the area that fit the description given by Sara. It was a beast, too: used to store atomic weapons parts for the Nevada Test Site until the late 1970’s, when the government upgraded to a larger and more conveniently located facility. It had been abandoned since.

Until earlier this year, when it was purchased by one Amber Lewis, a young woman from Summerlin with a rather unremarkable background. A bit _too_ unremarkable. On the phone, Sara mentioned that the woman she knew as Whitney Adams asked to be called Amber. Everything was lining up.

Grissom received an update from Brass, letting him know that the plan was to send S.W.A.T. teams directly to the warehouse. Law enforcement in cities and towns closest to the warehouse were currently coordinating to set up roadblocks, and a BOLO on the van was sent out as far as neighboring states. Three helicopters would be involved in the operation: one heading to Sara’s location, one to scout ahead of units heading to the warehouse, and one Medi-vac on stand-by at the hospital. The first two would carry mostly law enforcement officers, but one paramedic with experience in search-and-rescue scenarios was also included in the crew of each in case emergency treatment was needed.

If Sara’s description had been accurate, Grissom could only hope teams were able to reach Greg before he was _beyond_ treatment. And although Sara was understandably distressed and a bit disoriented during their conversation, he did not believe she was distraught enough to exaggerate the man’s injuries.

“We’re leaving in five.”

Grissom had been reviewing the recorded conversation with Sara to be sure he heard all the details, and Nick’s voice behind him gave him a slight start. Grissom removed the headphones and turned toward the younger man, waiting on elaboration.

“I’m hitching a ride on the chopper to find Sara. Pilot thinks it’ll take a little over an hour to reach her,” Nick continued, talking to fill the silence and studying Grissom carefully as if expecting him to say something. “You’re gonna stay here, then?”

Grissom nodded. “As much as I want to go, I’m out of practice in the field. I don’t want you all to trip over me.”

“I understand. I’ll keep you updated.” Nick still lingered in the doorway. “Anything else, boss?”

“Nick, I’m not your boss anymore. You should be reporting all of this to D.B.”

“Right, well…I’m still gonna keep you updated,” Nick said, slightly embarrassed.

“Thanks, Nick.”

Nick turned to go before spinning back around, “Oh, Grissom?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll report everything to Russell. Go catch the helicopter, be safe, and bring Sara home.”

Smiling in thanks, Nick dashed down the hall.

* * *

As soon as Sara picked up a low hum in the distance and spotted the tiny flashing light in the sky, she crawled from her hiding spot near another creosote bush to wave it over. She hoped it was equipped with night vision or heat detection because the sun had already set.

Once she knew a helicopter was on its way, she had taken cover as Grissom asked her to do. Although unlikely, there was a possibility that she could be spotted by Harris or Whitney if they were out searching for her. She spent the entire time beating herself up over leaving Greg and hoping it wasn’t the wrong decision. Twice, she heard the echoing yowls of coyotes and shivered. The few nocturnal insects that could withstand the chill temperatures at night in the desert seemed to swarm to her, and she constantly had to swat them away. At least the constant motion helped keep her warm. Now more than ever she was thankful to have located service on the cellphone, because in the entire time she’d waited here not one car passed by.

The hum became a deafening roar as the helicopter approached and circled her twice. She watched and shielded her face from the wind and whirlwinds of sand as it touched down on a bare, flat piece of desert near the road.

She instantly recognized Nick when he jumped down from the chopper, ducking under the blades and jogging over to her.

“Sara! I’m so glad you’re alright!” he shouted over the din when he reached her.

She wrapped her arms around him, unable to contain her tears of relief and regret. He held her close. She was badly sunburnt and had some minor scrapes and bruises, reminding of him how she looked after finding her following the Natalie Davis incident. Minus the broken arm, thankfully. Nick felt grateful they had the luck to find her a second time. Nonetheless, Greg was still out there somewhere, in danger, and that detail weighed heavily on his shoulders.

“We have to get Greg,” Sara mumbled against him as if she’d read his mind.

Nick pulled away, carefully studying her and making sure he heard her right. “S.W.A.T. is on their way to the warehouse right now. They’re on top of this. We need to get you back to the city and checked out. Everyone’s worried about you.” He wrapped an arm around her and corralled her into the helicopter.

Ecklie had been clear in his orders: find Sara and get her back to the city. Leave Adams and Harris to Special Tactics. Because they’d already easily kidnapped two CSI members, and it seemed admittedly logical to _not_ send more straight to their front door.

The pilot handed her a headset which she donned as Nick slid the door shut behind them. Once they were seated, the helicopter immediately lifted off. Nick stayed next to Sara with an arm around her shoulders.

She glanced around at the rest of the team and noticed the medic for the first time, who was already getting some things together to look Sara over. “No!” she turned to Nick. “She can check me out. Would that be enough? Listen to me, Nick, Greg needs us _now_ —it may already be too late. And I’m the only one here who has already been to the warehouse and knows what to expect.”

Nick sighed, visually assessed Sara again and finally nodded. She looked distraught but not seriously injured or in danger of going into shock. He met the pilot’s eyes for a moment. The pilot had his own orders, but he too had experienced circumstances where a coworker or friend was in danger. He knew his bird was topped off on fuel and they could easily make a side trip. The pilot bobbed his head and shifted the helicopter’s trajectory, radioing to the rest of the teams about the change in plans.

Nick handed Sara a bottle of water and introduced her to the team: Officers Sanchez, Floyd, and Briggs, and the paramedic, Tiffany York. After the helicopter’s nose dipped and started to race toward Greg’s last known location, Tiffany carefully made her way over to Sara, smiling.

“Sara, right?”

She nodded. “I have a cut on my forehead, some scrapes here and there. I was kicked in the stomach…and I think they used chloroform on me. Just once.”

As she rattled off her injuries matter-of-factly, Nick stared at her with horror. She was only attempting to help the paramedic in her assessment, but the way she listed them like they were no big deal…

And why on earth would she feel the need to clarify that the chloroform was only used on her once?

Tiffany nodded, listened to Sara’s breathing and heart with her stethoscope as well as she could inside the loud aircraft. She examined and cleaned the cut on her forehead and checked her stomach for bruising. Finally, she pulled back.

“Alright, Sara. You’re dehydrated and really should have some imaging done at a hospital to make sure your insides are all okay. They’ll most likely run bloodwork on you, now and in a few weeks, to make sure the chloroform has no lasting effects on your organs. But overall, you’re in good shape. If you get to the hospital within the next few hours, I’d say you have a very good prognosis.”

Sara thanked her and looked to Nick. “See? I’m fine.”

“Yeah, okay,” he chuckled. “Don’t think you’re getting out of going to the hospital _forever_ though. Now, tell me about the layout of the warehouse.”

* * *

Sara couldn’t believe how quickly the helicopter reached the warehouse. She felt like she’d walked for hours, and it only took the pilot just shy of twenty minutes. As soon as it came into view from the chopper, however, her hopes dropped. She had a sneaking suspicion that it had been abandoned. Exterior lights were left on but the van was not there. She supposed it was possible that only one captor had gone somewhere while the other stayed with Greg, but…

The pilot landed the chopper, and Nick forced Sara and the medic to wait inside the aircraft while he and the rest of the officers cleared the building. After several nerve-wracking minutes, they ran back to the helicopter and jumped in. His face was pale and he looked like he might have been sick while inside. “There’s so much blood, I can’t—what happened in there, Sara?”

She only shook her head grimly. That was not something she could handle talking about right now, especially in front of strangers. She knew that someday very soon she would be required to talk about it, but now was not the time.

Nick rubbed his temples. He then addressed the pilot. “No one’s in there. Find I-15 again and head northeast.”

The pilot nodded in understanding and once again the helicopter rose into the night sky.

“Why north?” Sara questioned.

“It’s only a guess,” Nick shrugged. “We covered most of the southern portion of the main roads on our way to find you and didn’t see the van. There are roadblocks set up now in every direction, but who knows when they ditched the warehouse?”

Sara sighed. Nick smiled as encouragingly as possible at her, and made a call to Grissom. He figured it was safer to call him with an update than Ecklie or D.B., but either way he knew he’d be in trouble over not bringing Sara straight back. According to Grissom, S.W.A.T. was ten minutes out from the warehouse. Even though they knew now it was empty, they would still stop there and regroup.

From up from the pilot got their attention and pointed to a couple of screens positioned near the apex of the ceiling. He flipped a switch, and infrared cameras that were located on the exterior of the craft projected their images for the occupants to see.

“Help me keep an eye on these,” he requested over the headsets. “I’ll control one, one of you control the other.”

Nick took the offered camera controller in his hand. It looked like a tiny joystick, and he soon was able to get used to what each movement did.

An hour passed. Updates came in from Brass and the other teams, but nothing that was helpful.

Another half-hour passed, and the pilot began to voice his concerns about needing to return to headquarters soon and fuel up.

Sara noticed the warm blip on the infrared screen first. It was far in the distance and impossible to make out any details. “There!” she shouted, catching the pilot’s attention and pointing him in the right direction.

Finally, they were close enough to recognize the shape warm object as an overturned vehicle about fifty yards off a service road near I-15. Seeing the severity of the wreck, Tiffany quickly shoved all her equipment back into the large duffle.

An invisible hand gripped Sara’s heart, squeezed and twisted. There was no way to tell yet who had been in the vehicle when it crashed, but she somehow knew Greg was involved. The vehicle was still hot, so it was impossible to see if there was any movement in it. It was on its hood, leaning against a rock, and had clearly been travelling at an extremely high rate of speed when it crashed, judging by its distance from the roadway as well as the irregular shape it had been molded into by the unforgiving surface of the desert.

Nick handed the camera controller to Sara as they reached the scene and hovered briefly over it. The spotlight from the chopper found the vehicle, and it clearly was not a van. Two ideas hit Sara at the same time: one, if this was the kidnappers, they had switched vehicles, and two, no person could have survived a crash like this… _right_?

Studying the mutilated vehicle with a bleak expression, Nick radioed the location of the wrecked sedan back to the hospital, as well as quickly updating S.W.A.T. and other units. The helicopter had barely touched ground before Sara had the sliding door open and began to step out. “Sara! Stop!” Nick grabbed her arm. “You know the routine. We’ll clear it first.”

Sara wasn’t completely blind with worry; she knew that if someone had survived the accident, it might be someone she needed to defend herself from, and she didn’t have her gun. Seeing her distress, the medic nodded to Nick and sat herself next to Sara, taking her hand. “Sara, can you prepare me for the kind of injuries Greg had when you last saw him? That way, if he’s in that car, I can try to help him faster.”

Chewing on her bottom lip, Sara glanced once more at Nick and held up the walkie-talkie he had handed to her. “As soon as you know anything—”

“I’ll radio you. I promise. Let’s move out!”

Nick and the three other officers jumped down from the chopper, running at first then slowing and pulling their flashlights and revolvers as they reached it. He arrived at the front of the car first, and Nick gestured for the other officers to each take a side of the vehicle. As they silently moved into position, Nick leaned down to peer into the front windshield. The interior was filled with shadows, but he could see enough to safely assume that no one was in either of the front seats.

Suddenly, the officer at the rear of the vehicle began to shout. “Freeze! Right there! Hands up!”

Nick dashed to the rear and took in the sight of Officer Briggs, gun leveled at a figure on the ground just outside of the rear window. It wasn’t until Nick shone his own flashlight at the figure that he realized it was actually two people, one on top of the other.

Both were covered in blood. The feminine figure on top had her arm hooked around a man’s throat in a vicious chokehold. The man lay on his stomach, appeared mostly nude, and Nick hoped that it was not Greg because he was like a ragdoll in her grip.

Nick raised his own gun, pointed it evenly at the woman. They were so close together and he needed to be careful not to hit both. She was not paying any attention to Briggs’ orders.

“Take your hands off of him or I’ll shoot!” Nick shouted once, and only once, before he pulled the trigger.

The woman shrieked and released the man, whose head flopped into the desert sand below. Officers Floyd and Sanchez moved in and grabbed the woman, who had been shot in the top of the shoulder, and dragged her away from the accident site to handcuff her. Nick pulled his radio from his belt at the same time as he dropped to his knees next to the motionless man. When he used his flashlight to get a better look at the man, he was nearly sick.

“Sara,” he swallowed. “Bring the medic, and have the pilot call in backup to this location.”

* * *

Running up on the scene, Sara and Tiffany passed two officers who were detaining a screeching, struggling Whitney. The woman was doused in blood and looked badly injured, but still fought against the men. Sara froze when she saw the trio. If that was Whitney, this was the right car.

Whitney caught Sara’s gaze with her own and gave her a tiny smile. “I took him,” she flaunted. It was impossible to hear her over the slowing blades of the helicopter, but Sara was good at reading lips. The officers shoved the blonde woman to the ground and yelled at her to shut up and cooperate.

“Up here!”

The two women followed Nick’s voice. First she saw Nick, kneeling near the trunk of the reconfigured sedan. The second thing that Sara registered as she leaned down to get on Nick’s level was the body on the ground in front of him. _Greg_. Her own body suddenly decided it was time to sit down, and she collapsed to the ground just behind Nick.

Tiffany wasted no time in ducking down next to Greg and donning her stethoscope.

Nick looked back at Sara, and his eyes were dark with emotion.

“Is-is he…?”

Nick shook his head slowly. “Sara…She was on top of him, choking him. I don’t know how long she was at it. I—I think we’re too late.”

The medic listened to Greg’s chest as best she could in his current position, but she shook her head. “Can someone help me turn him?”

Since Sara still couldn’t seem to get her body to do anything but sit there, and Officer Briggs seemed to be in a similar state of shock, Nick was the first to step in to help. The two gently turned Greg’s body, at the same time pulling him further from the wreck. When they set him down, his head ended up right next to Sara. She looked down at her friend and sobbed. His face was an unnatural purple-red, eyes closed, and even more injuries than before littered his already spent body.

“He’s not breathing, and his heart isn’t beating. We need to start CPR,” Tiffany stated. The situation was too urgent at this point to _not_ be blunt. “I need to work on his airway. Nick, can you start compressions?”

Nick nodded and positioned himself next to Greg’s torso, then began to rhythmically push on the center of his chest. He flinched as the bones crunched under his hands but didn't stop.

Tiffany had moved to Greg’s head, and Sara had a front-row seat as the woman tried to stick a tube down his trachea with the help of a metal laryngoscope. 

“It’s too swollen,” she worried as she palpated the extent of the damage on the outside of Greg’s throat with a hand. “I need to make a hole down here, in his lower neck,” Tiffany explained as she readied some supplies. She wanted the guy’s friends to know what her purpose was before she started cutting into him. “We need to try to get below the obstruction.”

As the woman worked speedily prepping a small circular area just above Greg’s sternum. Officer Briggs finally broke from his paralysis and relieved Nick on compressions. The other two were still trying to wrangle a now cuffed Whitney. Nick helped by handing off items from the medic’s duffel bag when she requested them.

Sara felt completely useless.

She was reminded of only a little over twenty-four hours ago when she had untied Greg from the chain that was slowly killing him. Could she really be lucky enough to be able to get him back twice from the brink of death? At least he’d had a heartbeat then. Simple mortality and the fragility of the human body was against them, and Sara herself wasn’t a known optimist.

A memory from one of Greg’s first experiences since transferring to the field flashed through her mind as she took in the sight of Greg so still, so...dead.

_"I heard you finally lost your virginity,” Sara quipped as she took a seat across from Greg. He only stared at her with his eyebrows raised slightly after looking up from the bones he was working hard on breaking up. “Your first autopsy! How was it?”_

_Greg turned back to his work. “It was fine. How was your first time? How did you react?”_

_"I puked,” she admitted with a small hesitation._

_“_ I _didn't puke.”_

_“Way to go, tough guy,” Sara smiled at him, trying to get more out of him because there was obviously more on his mind._

_“It was weird, seeing a body laying on a table like that…Doc Robbins just pulling out his insides until it was all empty.”_

_“Were you expecting a ball of light?”_

_“Doc Robbins said, ‘That's all we really are’.”_

_"It's what you do with it that counts," Sara reminded the young investigator gently._


	17. A Seat Here Alongside Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is finally out of his captor's tight grasp, but was the team too late?

_My soundtrack: “Fade Away” by Seether, “Cutt Off” by Kasabian_

* * *

_"It's what you do with it that counts."_

Sara was drawn back to the present when an ambu breathing bag was pressed into her hands. She looked up and saw it was connected to a clear tube that was protruding from a tiny slit at the base of Greg’s throat. She’d missed the entire procedure. Her nausea tripled. There wasn’t as much fresh blood as she expected around the incision, but Sara was sure this lack of bleeding was not just thanks to Tiffany’s skills.

“Can you hold that for me?” the medic repeated. “ _Very_ still, that’s it. I need make sure the tube is correctly placed and secure it in before we move him. Give him a deep breath once every six seconds by pressing on the bag like this.” Sara watched dumbfounded as Tiffany placed her own hands over Sara’s and pressed the bag. “Can you do that, Sara?”

She wasn’t sure, but she would try.

“Nick, call dispatch. Tell them we’re going straight to Desert Palm in this chopper. We can’t wait for the Medi-vac.”

Nick did as she requested. His voice shook on the radio, but only slightly and Sara met his eyes in between pushing air in and out of Greg’s lungs. She tried not to look at the incision in Greg’s neck as the medic used her stethoscope again to listen to each side of Greg’s battered chest. She had the officer stop compressions momentarily so she could hear.

“It’s as good as we’re going to get right now. His left lung is collapsed. Keep giving him breaths as I stitch this in, okay? _Calm_ breaths, Sara.”

Sara nodded and tried to slow down the rate at which she squeezed the bag. She watched as the curved needle plunged into Greg’s flesh next to the plastic tube, observed his bare chest rise and fall with each squeeze. She thought about how close they’d been to saving him. Just a couple of hours and he could still be alive. He had been through so much, for no reason at all…

“Hey, Sara?” Nick asked carefully. He’d been ready to tag in again on compressions, but when Sara lost all color in her face, he put a hand on her shoulder.

She only nodded again, stiffly.

“I’m good,” Briggs reassured Nick, his expression hinting that he agreed Sara did _not_ look fine.

Nick gently but decisively removed the ambu bag from Sara’s hands. “It’s alright, I’ve got this. You take a break, okay?”

Sara did not argue.

Tiffany finished suturing in the tube and she asked Briggs to stop compressions again so she could take another listen to Greg’s chest. A look of shock crossed her face before she glanced back up at the small group. “No need to resume compressions. His heart is beating on its own. We should move him to the helicopter now.”

As Briggs positioned the backboard next to Greg, Nick thought of something. “There’s not going to be room for all of us in the chopper.”

The paramedic agreed after mentally counting the number of people they now had, including Whitney. “With the amount of space the backboard takes up, three people will have to stay behind and wait on the other helicopter to pick them up. Does she need immediate medical attention?” she asked, referring to Whitney.

Nick glared in the direction of the woman, who was still yelling and struggling. “Nah, she’s good until backup gets here. I’ll stay here with her and Officer Sanchez and keep an eye on the scene. Sara, you stay right by Greg, okay? Officers Floyd and Briggs can ride along and help Miss York here with whatever she needs. Make sure you let them check you out at the hospital, too.” Nick wanted nothing more than to stay with his teammates, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave someone as manipulative as Whitney Adams in the company of a couple young officers he’d only just met.

Briggs and Tiffany shifted Greg onto the backboard and secured the straps as cautiously as possible to avoid more pressure on his chest. He was hastily loaded onto the helicopter and laid on the floor. It wasn’t optimal, but the aircraft was designed for hunting down fugitives, not transporting gravely injured patients. The team secured the backboard down using straps built into the aircraft’s floor that were meant for stabilizing equipment. Briggs took Nick’s place at Greg’s head to breathe for him, and Nick helped Sara onto the helicopter, where she sat cross-legged next to Greg’s shoulder. Officer Floyd sat off to the side, prepared to be utilized if needed.

Nick gave Sara one last reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before joining Officer Sanchez and Whitney Adams. According to dispatch, the other helicopter was only about ten minutes away from the accident site. Brass and some of his guys were driving and would take longer, but they would take over the scene when they arrived.

Tiffany crouched at her patient’s side. She placed an intravenous catheter and started him on fluids. She wrapped any wounds that were currently bleeding and stabilized his right arm and leg, which both appeared broken.

Sara stroked his arm gently, whispered to him though she was sure Greg could not hear her. She tried to tune out the action around her and instead focused solely on him. His heart was beating on its own. Against all odds, the man was fighting for his life. Sara only wished there was some way that she could _help_ him fight.

Suddenly, she felt very tired. She curled onto her side facing Greg, keeping contact with a hand on his upper arm.

“Are you alright, Sara?” Tiffany’s voice inquired.

She nodded against the helicopter’s floor.

“Sara?”

The world was growing blurry and Sara’s vision narrowed.

“Sara? Someone check on her!”

She tried to tell them she was okay, just needed some rest, but the cold surface under her was just so comfortable. She figured it was safe to sleep now, next to Greg, so she did.

* * *

_“Hvorfor er du her?”_

_“Papa Olaf? Tilgi meg. Jeg har…ikke holdt følge med språket.”_

_“Ikke bekymre deg. Du gjør det bra Hojem.”_

_“Det er så mørkt.”_

_“Det er fordi du ikke burde være her ennå.”_

_“Jeg er red…alt gjør vondt.”_

_“Det er på tide å gå tilbake. Å, og Hojem?”_

_“Ja?”_

_“Si hei til nana.”_

Thunder rattles his bones like an earthquake, decimates his eardrums, and now he’s deaf.

Then the lightning: two flashes in tandem, bright as a solar flare. It melts his eyes and now he’s blind.

_“That’s two out of five, Greggy. What shall we take next?”_

That’s no longer his Papa Olaf’s voice.

_“Tell you what. I’ll leave you with touch and take everything else. Seems fair, right, since you stole nearly everything from me? That way, you can still_ feel _all the pain I inflict on you while we’re stuck in here together.”_

Even though he’s blind, Greg can sense Whitney in front of him, reaching toward him, _into_ him. She grabs his ribs, twists, pushes, pulls, _squeezes_ and he can feel the bones crunching into hundreds of tiny pieces. He tries to scream but all he can do is _feel_ , float in the anguish, and hope he doesn’t sink.

And it does end, but Greg has no sense of how long it lasted. The still-fisted hand pulls from the hole in his chest and he imagines that squishy suction sound, like scraping the insides out of a Halloween pumpkin before carving it. Greg feels a small flutter in that void; a flutter that soon becomes a rhythmic _thud_ that warms him. Whitney is no longer in front of him, but he can feel her in the distance. Lurking, waiting.

He’ll never be completely safe again.

* * *

Nick Stokes was not involved in the Adams case ten years ago, and right about now he wished he still wasn’t. He’d only had a chance to fleetingly scan old case information after Sara gave the name to Grissom, and Whitney Adams quickly ascended his list of ‘scariest goddamned people I’ve ever met’. She reached top five—an impressive feat with Nick’s unlucky history. The twelve-minute stretch between when Greg and Sara’s helicopter left and the second helicopter arrived felt like hours. The woman screamed to the point that Nick thought she might pass out. But when she stopped, she talked about Greg and Sara, and Nick wished she’d start screaming again.

He was mostly able to tune her out, and Officer Sanchez helped somewhat by trying to distract her when she focused too intently. Although, Nick still wanted to throttle her, and he was almost grateful that the rookie cop was there. A witness. The woman was already lucky that he could only get a safe shot at her shoulder and not something more serious.

When the other helicopter arrived. Nick made a final phone call to D.B., who was currently at the warehouse documenting evidence. He asked Nick to proceed with his plan of escorting Whitney to lock-up, but insisted he not try to get any information out of her before Brass could be present. The team wanted to prevent any potential future issues with this case. D.B. also told him that Ecklie wanted to meet with him before the night was over.

_Great_.

Nick briefed the crew of the helicopter on who Whitney was, basically told them not to so much as _look_ at her, as Officer Sanchez cuffed her to a bar by one of the seats and made her sit down. Nick and Sanchez sat on either side of her. She finally seemed to have resigned to the fact that she was caught. Or, she lost enough blood to be complacent. Either way, the quiet was a nice change of pace. She stared straight ahead—unfortunately for the officer that sat across from her. He squirmed uncomfortably and pretended to be engrossed in conversation with his comrade next to him.

The medic that was on this helicopter looked Whitney over, placed a temporary bandage over the gunshot wound on her shoulder as well as some of her cuts from the car crash. He asked if Nick could uncuff her so he could put her arm in a sling. Nick told him there was a better chance of running over a unicorn on the way to the station.

About a half hour into the return trip, the pilot was on the radio coordinating with the police station to drop Whitney off. Nick wished he could get an update on Greg, and hoped Sara was doing okay. She was understandably distraught, but Nick hoped that she could forgive herself for whatever she thought she did wrong.

A small movement off to the side registered in Nick’s periphery. It was so slight that he only noticed because it was the side Whitney was on, so he was hyper-vigilant to it. He instinctively reached for his holster. Whitney and Officer Sanchez suddenly rose as one. Nick jumped up also, only a fraction of a second behind, but Whitney’s shout of “stop!” halted him from removing his weapon from its holster, as did the sight of the pistol held in the woman’s uncuffed hands and pointed at the back of Sanchez’s neck.

The next several moments passed in impossibly slow-motion, and unfortunately so did Nick’s reflexes. He kept a hand levitated over his weapon, held up the other in complaisance. The rest of the team, perhaps minus the pilot, began to grasp what was happening. One seasoned officer that was currently positioned behind Whitney as she faced Nick, started to make his move. Nick shook his head at him, but he didn’t see or didn’t care.

Whitney glanced back, noticed the officer at the last second, and pulled the trigger. The front of Sanchez’s neck blew outward, bits landed on Nick’s front, the bullet kept going, passed so close to Nick’s ear that he felt the burn. The helicopter lurched

_what if they hit a unicorn?_

and Nick lost his footing and went down, but he wasn’t alone. Those who weren’t seated and buckled in, including Whitney, also hit the floor hard. Nick drew his weapon, pointed it at the blonde woman. The aircraft lurched again, tossed them a foot into the air before throwing them back down. Nick risked a glance toward the pilot and almost wished he hadn’t. The bullet had finally stopped—at least Nick assumed it had because the glass of the front window was still intact. However, more gore was sprayed on the windows, and the pilot was unmoving, collapsed across the controls.

The helicopter began to spin and plummet simultaneously. Both Whitney and Nick ditched their weapons to grab hold of something solid. The centrifugal force wrenched at them, tore items from the walls of the chopper, and Nick made himself as small as possible. Something hit his back, then _thunk_ ed against a wall, and he thought it sounded heavy enough to be a human.

Nick had enough time to think ‘ _shit shit shit_ ’ before the helicopter hit vegetation then solid earth and the impact switched off his lights.

* * *

Two hours after coming upon that car wreck, Sara sat on a bed in a curtained-off area of the emergency room at Desert Palm Hospital. The doctor that saw her insisted on hooking her up to an I.V. catheter for a few hours to rehydrate her. Catherine sat next to Sara since there weren’t any chairs around. The blonde continually checked her cell phone for updates, but one of her hands remained on the younger woman’s knee.

The cut on Sara’s head was cleaned and sutured. She already had her blood drawn for the lab work, as well as radiographs and an ultrasound performed. So far, everything was coming back in the normal ranges—except, of course, the indications of dehydration and stress, which was expected. Considering what Greg went through, Sara figured she got off easy.

Not long after arriving at the hospital, Catherine received news from Captain Brass that Harris’s body was discovered at the accident scene between the roadway and the sedan’s final location. He’d obviously been thrown out during the wreck, but Brass mentioned a couple of other findings on the man’s body that were…unusual for a car accident. They would need to wait on the autopsy report to know for sure.

Catherine relayed to Sara that Harris was found deceased, but did not elaborate for now.

They had yet to receive any news on Greg. Every half-hour, Catherine stopped at the nurses’ station to check, and each time she was turned away and told to wait for the doctor to come and find them. They could only hope that meant Greg was still alive, so in a way they dreaded the moment a doctor rounded that curtain.

Sara hated being immobile. She would never describe herself as a fidgety person, but staying in one place for too long when there were clearly other things to be done made her a bit anxious. In her own home she could easily relax when there was time, but now did not seem appropriate.

Feeling her cellphone vibrate in her pocket, Catherine quickly answered it after glancing at the caller ID. “Willows.”

After a moment Sara felt Catherine tense and remove her hand from her knee. She stood and walked to the curtain, listening intently, then put a trembling hand over her mouth. “Oh my god. When did they lose radio contact?”

Sara sat straight up.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll tell them. As soon as I find out about Greg I’ll come help. Keep me updated. Thanks,” Catherine hung up the phone and she turned to Sara, shock still visible on her face. “That was Brass again. The helicopter that was transporting Whitney Adams to the hospital—dispatch lost contact with it about thirty minutes after it took off.”

“Oh no. Nick?”

She only shook her head. “No one’s heard anything. He’s not answering his phone. They’ve sent out more search teams. It looks like navigation was disabled, so all they can do is follow the path the helicopter should have taken.”

Head shaking in disbelief, Sara prepared herself to stand up. “We’ve got to make sure there’s security on Greg. Whitney’s still out there.”

Catherine nodded and stood. “I’m on it. You stay here, you’re…attached to things.” She pointed at the I.V. pump.

Shortly after Catherine notified hospital security as well as arranged for some officers to come stand guard at entrances and Greg’s room, a young doctor in clean surgical scrubs entered the room. He looked around, then hesitantly approached the two women. “Are you here for Greg Sanders?”

Sara abruptly stood up, but the doctor firmly guided her back into her seat and sat in the chair next to her. Catherine remained seated but leaned forward.

“I’m Timothy Holland. I’ve been working with Mr. Sanders since he was admitted. Have you been able to get in contact with his family?” he inquired.

“We’re friends and coworkers of Greg.” Each woman introduced herself, then Sara continued: “The crime lab is still working on reaching his parents. I think they’re currently out of the country on vacation in a remote region. How is Greg?”

The doctor sighed and ran a hand through his hair, looking exhausted and somewhat flustered. “How long was Mr. Sanders missing?”

Sara began to lose patience; the doctor was avoiding her questions. “Today, I mean yesterday—" she corrected after a glance at the clock on the wall in the room. “—was seven days. Now please, Dr. Holland, tell me how Greg is doing.”

Catherine placed a calming hand on Sara’s shoulder, sensing her aggravation.

After another hesitation, the doctor finally conceded. “At this time, Mr. Sanders is being maintained on a ventilator and intravenous fluids, antibiotics, and pain medications. He was extremely dehydrated upon arrival; if he had any water while he was missing, it was not a substantial amount. He is two hours into a blood transfusion because he’s lost a lot of blood, cumulatively, for the past week. For at least the next twenty-four hours he will need to be closely monitored for a possible reaction to the new blood.

“As I believe you know, the paramedic performed an emergency tracheotomy during his transport here, and it’s my opinion that procedure saved his life. The tissues in his throat are extremely swollen and bruised, and he couldn’t move as much air past the swelling as his body needed to maintain its normal functions. Further compromising his respiratory system, he had several broken ribs, one of which punctured his left lung, triggering a pneumothorax, or an air leak from his lung into his chest cavity, as well as aspiration of his own blood from the trauma in his throat.”

“Was his lung punctured in the car accident?”

Dr. Holland shook his head. “No. When I was in surgery on your friend, I found evidence that some of his ribs have been fractured for several days, if not longer. Some sort of separate trauma caused the punctured lung anywhere from 24 to 36 hours ago.”

Sara glanced to Catherine, and both women grimaced as they worked out the timeline of Greg’s injuries. “How did he survive with a collapsed lung for over a day?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. The extent of his injuries…I’ve worked in emergency medicine for ten years now, and Greg’s injuries are some of the worst I’ve seen in a living patient. We performed an MRI of his stomach and a CT scan of his entire body. Most of his abdominal organs are bruised, especially his kidneys and areas of his small intestines. His kidneys are in acute failure due to many factors including physical trauma, dehydration, and large doses of nephrotoxic drugs. We know about the chloroform, but I’m suspicious that he was given injectable sedatives at some point. There are a couple of marks on him that look like a needle was stabbed into a muscle group. We’re running toxicology on his blood, but depending on how long ago the medication was given, it may not show up on the report. With his kidneys, best case scenario: we give him supportive care such as dialysis and they heal on their own over weeks or months. Worst case scenario: he’ll need a transplant at some point down the road. But we will deal with those things once Greg is through this initial, most critical period.”

Catherine held a hand to her chest and closed her eyes. She couldn’t believe this was happening to Greg; hadn’t the poor guy had been through enough?

Sara simply stood there, taking it all in resolutely with an unreadable expression on features.

“He has a torn ligament in his left knee and a broken right tibia, or shinbone. Again, those are things that we can work on repairing further along in his recovery. His right shoulder was dislocated as well within the past week; someone set it into place but the tissues around it are still very inflamed. He also broke his right humerus—the bone in his upper arm. He has several infected cuts and abrasions all over his body. We didn’t close some of them with sutures yet because I expect some tissue necrosis down the road. For now, we’ll keep the worst of them covered and clean.”

Catherine wanted to track down Whitney Adams herself and hurt her as much as she and Harris hurt Greg. “What are his chances at a full recovery?”

“It’s hard to answer that. Every person is unique in their healing ability, and every injury is unique in the way it was obtained. My greatest concerns with Mr. Sanders are his respiratory system, infection, and his neurologic health. The supporting structures around his trachea have been greatly damaged by what could only be repeated strangling attempts, and his lungs had a substantial amount of water in them. We don’t want to keep him on a ventilator forever, but these things take time to heal. I fully expect him to get pneumonia at some point, which will further complicate things. Most of his penetrating wounds are infected, and he’s fighting a high fever. Keeping him on the antibiotics is necessary for now, but with his organs in their current state I worry about how his body will react to the medicine. Finally, since he had extended and repeated loss of blood and oxygen circulation to his brain, we could continue to see delayed effects for years. Right now, his brain scans appear normal for his activity level, but the best way to know for sure is if he wakes up and communicates with us somehow. And his mind…he was a captive to his torturers for a week, and in that amount of time irreparable damage can be done to the human psyche. Until Greg can tell his own story, we can only guess at what else might have happened to him there,” Dr. Holland concluded gravely.

“I understand. Was he…” Catherine couldn’t bring herself to say the word, but the doctor seemed to know what she meant.

“There are no physical signs that Greg was sexually assaulted.”

_Thank god for small miracles._ Nodding, Catherine thanked him for his help. She then warned him that one of Greg’s captors may be on the move again. “I have already alerted hospital security, and the crime lab is sending over uniformed officers to stand guard at all of the entrances and exits. It would make me feel better if one of us could stay with Greg until the fugitive is found.”

The doctor sighed, “It’s outside of visiting hours, but since you said that whoever did this to him might be on the loose again, it would make me feel better if you were able to keep an eye on him. Our nurses are all very busy, and…”

Sara finally interjected after being silent for so long. “I’ll do it.”

Catherine nodded. After having listened to all of Greg’s injuries, she was dreading even more what she had to do, but would never ask Sara to do it instead. “Dr. Holland, before Sara sits with Greg, I have some samples and photos to take for the case. I won’t be long.”

He nodded in understanding. Unfortunately, this was not his first experience collaborating with investigators and police over a crime victim. “He’s not awake. Greg is in a medically-induced coma and will not be conscious anytime soon. Go ahead and get what you need, just mind the wires and tubes attached to him. There should be nurses around to help you turn him or remove bandages to get your pictures. Any clothes that he was wearing will be in a bag in the ICU—one of the aids there can direct you to it.”

* * *

Catherine arrived at Greg’s bed. His only semblance of privacy was a curtain which was now open so that the staff could easily keep an eye on him. The beds on either side of his were empty. She tried not to think of the people that once occupied them and where they might be now. She pulled the curtain halfway around the bed, being sure to cover the direction that had the most foot-traffic. She took a deep breath and turned to process her coworker and good friend.

If it hadn’t been for the nurse directing her to his bed and the identification wristband encircling one of his thin forearms, Catherine thought she might have walked right by him. She approached the bed and looked closely at his face. Only closeup did she recognize some hints of the young, vibrant former lab tech she had known for so long. She had never seen him anything but clean shaven, and he was currently sporting a decent start to a beard. That along with the bruising, swelling, and cuts aided in erasing and masking his normally distinctive features. He was also thinner than she remembered.

“Oh, Greg,” she combed his unruly hair with gloved fingers. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. And I’m sorry that I’m going to need to document the evidence…which right now, is you.” Catherine paused. She didn’t know if it was better or worse that he wouldn’t be awake for this. It felt like more of a violation when the victim was unconscious, but at least asleep they would not remember the humiliation. “You understand that I _have_ to do this, right Greg?”

The machines in the room beeped and whirred their own off-tempo answer.

She quickly blinked away the tears that threatened to fall and sighed. Forcing herself to focus on the task at hand, Catherine placed her evidence collection kit onto a mayo stand next to Greg and opened it. She pulled her hair into a ponytail, rolled up her sleeves, and donned a new set of examination gloves. She pulled the supplies that she needed from the kit and once more approached his unconscious form.

_Fingernails. Greg would have fought back._

Indeed, Greg’s fingernails were dirtied with a mixture of blood and other filth. Catherine scraped what she could from under his nails into small paper envelopes. The whole time, she observed his bruised features for any signs of discomfort. She swallowed the discomfort she felt at the emptiness there. The knuckles of Greg’s hands were bruised and abraded. Using a sterile piece of tape, she carefully stuck it to each of his knuckles, pulling it off slowly and hoping the blood and skin cells that now adhered to the tape did not only belong to Greg.

Catherine then began to process Greg’s visible injuries. His bare torso on its own took more than thirty images on her digital camera to completely document. Two nurse aids came in when requested, helped to turn Greg and allow Catherine to image his back. The bruising was horrendous. Colors ranging from dark purple to brick red to olive green mottled his rib cage and stomach. One especially dense bruise on his lower back near his spine was the size of a large fist. Catherine remembered what Dr. Holland said about acute kidney damage and shuddered.

All his cuts appeared to be precisely placed and inflicted by the same weapon. During their most recent conversation, D.B. mentioned finding a small paring knife, covered in blood, near the accident scene.

Greg’s neck was especially difficult for her to document. At least three individual ligature patterns could be easily distinguished, along with multiple incidents of each of _those_ patterns. There was obvious swelling, bruising, and even tears where the ligature pulled and pinched his skin. When a bandage was pulled away for her to snap an image, a long, deep cut was revealed and Catherine wondered how he hadn’t bled out.

But he nearly had, and his still stark-white features were proof of that. Greg did his part by simply _surviving_ , and now it was their turn to catch Whitney and ensure their case would be open and shut as quickly as possible. That way, Greg and Sara wouldn’t have to worry about the Adams sisters ever again.

She hoped that Nick was alright; she still hadn’t heard any updates about him. Why couldn’t things ever be easy for them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Norwegian translation:
> 
> "Why are you here?"  
> “Papa Olaf? Forgive me. I ... did not keep up with the language. "  
> "Do not worry. You are doing well Hojem. ”  
> "It's so dark."  
> "It's because you shouldn't be here yet."  
> "I'm scared ... everything hurts."  
> “It's time to go back. Oh, and Hojem? "  
> "Yes?"  
> "Say hello to Nana."
> 
> Let me know what you think! Thanks for reading. 😊


	18. Lead Me to the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Things have been...interesting over here. Enjoy the next chapter!

_My soundtrack: “Carry You” by Ruelle, “Caveman” by Scott Thomas_

* * *

Sara studied Catherine closely when she finally reemerged from the trauma unit. She needed to know what to prepare herself for since it was her turn next to sit with Greg. To any stranger, the blonde appeared composed, but Sara could see that she was quite shaken by her first look at him. A silent agreement passed between the two that the findings of Greg’s processing didn’t need to be discussed just yet. There were more pressing matters to attend to; the man was not yet out of the woods, and Nick was still missing in action. After confirming that hospital security took her earlier warning seriously, Catherine would meet up with Brass and help search for Nick. The women embraced briefly and promised to keep each other updated. Sara’s phone had either not yet been found or sat sealed in an evidence bag somewhere, so she had been supplied with an extra that Catherine kept in her collection kit.

Immediately following the older investigator’s departure, several uniformed officers sent by Brass arrived at the hospital, providing guidance and reinforcement to hospital security staff. Now there were enough men to have someone posted at each entrance to the building, as well as all emergency access points. They were supplied with pictures of who they needed to look out for. If Whitney did survive the helicopter crash and against all odds made it back to the city, she should have no opportunity to enter the hospital unnoticed.

Sara’s own doctor had officially discharged her after forcing her to eat an entire hospital meal then checking additional bloodwork and ensuring she was adequately rehydrated. He also knew that Sara planned to stay at the hospital, so he could check in on her later. A nurse aid pulled a seat to Greg’s bedside and pointed out the call button’s location in case she needed anything. She thanked him before he wandered off to tend to other patients.

She pulled the chair as close as possible, sunk into it, and lowered the safety rail on this side of the hospital bed. For the first time since this all started, Sara allowed herself to really _look_ at Greg. No dusky faux-dungeon, no distraction of excessive action surrounding them, and each uncovered injury vividly and horrendously illuminated in the bright lighting of the hospital.

‘ _His scars from the laboratory explosion and the alley beating will be nothing compared to this,_ ’ she thought grimly.

A thin white sheet covered him to mid-chest, offering both exterior warmth and some modesty to the man under it. Bruises, scrapes, burns, and angry red cuts marred nearly every inch of his pale skin. An I.V. catheter was secured with medical tape into the crook of his left elbow, as well as on the right side of his chest, just beneath his collarbone. One carried a blood transfusion, the other fluids and medications.

Now that he was receiving hydration, his parched body savoring every drop, he began to react appropriately to the fever and his skin gleamed with sweat. His neck was covered in a cool damp cloth, likely to aid with the swelling, and Sara was relieved. She didn’t think she could face the rope burns, the bruises in the shape of an arm and the pattern of chains; the unadulterated reminders of the torture Greg had suffered over the past week. In her mind, they were the most upsetting symbol of Whitney Adams’ previously held control over him.

A breathing tube that extended from under the cloth attached to a ventilator set up on the opposite side of the bed. She watched the rise and fall of his chest correspond with the whirring of the machine and the dip and climb of the accordion-shaped bellows in the clear chamber.

Greg’s lips were so dry and cracked that they bled. A very small section of the left side of his head had been shaved to assess and suture a cut. The two nearly symmetrical cuts on each side of his chest, which Sara recalled from the warehouse, were now covered with dressings. His broken right arm was elevated at his side and wrapped with several towels to keep it mostly immobile. Both of his legs also looked to be elevated under the sheet. Most of his left forearm was wrapped in a thick bandage, and Sara remembered what lay hidden under that wrap: the deep cut Greg sustained while giving her an opportunity to escape.

She thought about his condition, still very critical, and how many months—even years—his physical and emotional recovery could take. Greg was a tough guy, stronger than most people knew, than even Sara knew until recently. His only downfall, like any qualified crime scene investigator on their shift: bottling and dodging his emotions like a professional. He would need to learn how to open himself up to others and admit he could not do this alone.

But first, he needed to heal physically. Fearful of harming him with a mere touch, Sara cautiously took his left hand into both of her own. His fingers were cold despite his fever, and a small tear trailed from the corner of one eye. She knew that Greg was currently being given strong I.V. opiates, and he should not have been feeling any pain. She used her thumb to gently blot the moisture away, hoping that it was an automatic act of his broken body and not a reaction to a nightmare that he could not escape.

Hopefully, it was a sign he would wake up as soon as his doctor allowed.

* * *

A fan _whoosh_ ed air past Nick’s head, and the draft felt nice.

He rolled leisurely to his back. Something brushed against his short hair.

“Mm. Just a couple more minutes.”

A man shouted, and Nick’s eyes opened. This was not his bedroom, and that was not a gentle breeze or a frisky lover trying to rouse him.

“ _Oh, f—_ ” Nick dodged away from the helicopter blade, which somehow rotated at a low speed despite the crash. He was outside of the aircraft; the door had been thrown open during the wreck and he must have been dumped out. The occasional wafts of air heavy with fuel vapors suggested he should be further, so he army-crawled low through desert vegetation that scraped his face and bare arms and tore his clothing.

Then he remembered the shout, and looked back.

Wisps of smoke rose from the front of the aircraft. Not good.

Another shout, although now more of a scream. Also not good.

After patting himself down frantically, Nick discovered that his satellite phone was no longer clipped to him. He felt a sharp pull in his left shoulder but disregarded it and crawled back toward the crash site.

The chopper’s blade was finally slowing. He hesitated long enough for it to come to a complete stop before rising to a crouch and making his way guardedly into the mangled wreckage. The front of the craft had flattened itself against the desert’s surface and received the worst of the damage. All he could do to access the pilot was stick his arm in a narrow opening in bent metal and try to feel a pulse or movement. He felt nothing, and his arm came back dripping with blood that he supposed belonged to the deceased pilot.

He turned his eyes to the back of the cabin, attention caught by a faint groan. It was Sanchez. In his rush to check on the officer, Nick stumbled over something soft. It was too dark in the craft to visualize much on the floor, so he sucked it up and reached blindly. There was a vest, a badge, and a body. No pulse, but there was a satellite phone, which he borrowed. He continued the rest of the way to Sanchez, who had not been buckled in due to the ordeal with Adams, and was obviously tossed about quite a bit. The young officer bled from several small cuts and one particularly deep laceration on his forehead, and everyone knows how much head wounds bleed. The man was painstakingly working on propping himself against one of the helicopter’s seats.

“Hey, hey man, let me help you out.” Nick crouched and ducked under Sanchez’s arm, taking a lot of his weight and helping the guy stand up. They made their way clumsily around the body and debris thrown everywhere on the floor. Going this way was downhill, and so involved quite a few stumbles and falls. Normally Nick would not advocate for jostling an accident victim around in case of spinal damage, but the smell of fuel had strengthened and smoke became thicker in the air around them.

Once positioned at what Nick hoped was a safe distance from the helicopter, he deposited Sanchez onto the ground and checked on him while mashing Captain Brass’s number into the satellite phone’s keypad.

“Melvin?” Brass answered. He must have caller identification.

“Oh, no. This isn’t Melvin. Melvin’s, uh—” Nick struggled with the simplest of words. The sharp ache in his shoulder was becoming rather difficult to ignore, the world wobbled around him, and he wondered briefly if he was hurt worse than he initially believed.

“Stokes?!”

“Yeah, we need fire and medical. Helicopter’s down.”

“Damn. Where are you? Hold on, I’ll have you tracked.” Some muffled conversation could be heard as the captain gave orders to the men around him, then he spoke into the phone again. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. And I-I’ve got Sanchez here. He’s alive. I can’t find most of the team.”

“That’s fine, we’ll find them. I’m getting in my car now; you’re not that far. I’ll be there soon, and emergency services are on their way. Are you safe?”

Nick glanced back toward the aircraft, assuming that was what Brass meant with his question. “We’re far enough, but there are definitely going to be flames soon. I should go back and—”

“No!” Brass warned sternly. “Don’t be a hero. Stay where you are.”

“Fine,” Nick relented, not putting up much of a fight. He remembered the condition of the other team members that were still on the helicopter, and admitted that it wasn’t worth getting blown up dragging bodies from the wreckage.

It would be a cold day in hell before Nick set foot in another helicopter anytime soon, and he had already decided he would catch a ride back to the city with Brass. Sanchez seemed stable, and Nick had him putting pressure on the still-bleeding cut on his head.

After disconnecting the call, Nick searched a small area surrounding the crash, keeping plenty of space between the helicopter and himself to keep his promise to Brass. He could not find any more members of the team, and soberly concluded they had either been ejected earlier or were _under_ the wreckage.

He also could not find Whitney Adams. Nick realized now that was probably why Brass asked if he was safe. Not only did they have an exploding helicopter to worry about, but what if Adams had survived the crash? She would certainly want to finish what she’d started. A part of him hoped _she_ was trapped under the aircraft; still alive but experiencing a slow, painful death…

Somehow, that scenario seemed an inadequate fate for her.

* * *

Sara held onto Greg’s hand with her own and gently stroked his unruly hair with the other until her fatigue became overwhelming. She rested her head on the bed near his arm, carefully avoiding the tubes and wires, and closed her eyes. She only slept for a few minutes before she sensed a presence, heard a quiet shuffle, and jumped. Her sleep-deprived senses had already convinced her that Whitney Adams was there, ready and eager to finish the two investigators off. She turned to see Catherine standing just behind her, and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Sorry to startle you. They found Nick.”

Sara pivoted further in her seat, entirely alert now. “Is he—”

Catherine nodded. “He’s alright, but he’s hurt. Brass has him and they’re on their way here. The helicopter went down. The whole crew…All but Nick and one officer died. Sara, Whitney Adams hasn’t been found.”

Sara’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. “That’s impossible. She was in a major car wreck, she was shot—Nick _shot_ her—then, she went down in a freaking helicopter! There is no way she could have gone through all that and _escaped_.”

“I’m just as confused as you,” Catherine agreed, “but Brass said they’re still clearing the scene, so maybe she’s under the debris. I’m going to make some more calls in the hallway, then take off. I had only just pulled out of the parking garage when Brass called. Do you need anything here, Sara?”

The younger woman looked down at her current attire. She’d had to give up her clothing to get processed earlier, so she now wore old, baggy scrubs that the hospital supplied her with.

“I’ll get you something else to wear.” When she noticed Sara patting her pockets instinctively, she stopped her. “We have your keys. You left them in your vehicle at the scene.”

“Right, thank you. Greg might need some things from his place when—uh, _if_ he…But Nick has a copy of his key, and…” Sara trailed off. The strain from the past week the ordeal the previous night and day were all quickly catching up with her.

“I’ll handle it,” Catherine reassured her with a gentle smile. “Stay here, but try to get some rest. You’re technically on administrative leave. You were kidnapped too, Sara. Greg will need someone he knows and trusts when he comes around. Talk to Nick when he gets here, see if he can give us any hints on where Whitney might be headed if she did escape.” Catherine put a hand on Sara’s shoulder again. “Greg’s going to be okay. He’s tough as nails.”

Sara nodded, still holding back tears. She thought that she was doing well at concealing her true feelings towards Greg, but she looked down and remembered she was still holding his hand. Despite that, she had a sense that Catherine caught on long ago: Greg and Sara shared a relationship more intimate than coworkers, and a bond much warmer than friendship.

* * *

Still blind, still deaf. The air is humid, thick.

There is no way to tell time here; no way to know how long he has occupied this place with no walls, no ceiling, and no floor. It’s felt like an eternity, but what hasn’t recently?

She stripped everything from him. All he has left is her voice in his head and the pain.

Mostly, Whitney whispers to him. She tells him not to worry, because she’ll never leave him. She says this as if it should be comforting. She discusses the fun they’ve had together, and wants to know Greg’s favorite part. His response is silence, because she’s also stolen his voice.

Sometimes, she speaks with her sister. She tells Lacey about the exciting plans she has in store for Greg, talks them through in vivid detail. He thinks Lacey might be in his head too, because at one point there is a response: she is proud of her little sister.

Often, Whitney gets bored of talking and wants to play. During these times, he takes to reciting the periodic tables. It’s something on which he’s relied a few times in the past when mental absence presents itself as an effective, if inappropriate coping mechanism.

Carried on a stretcher away from his smoldering lab, the burnt walls and blasted-out windows marching by in a wobbly, slow-motion procession. In a physical stupor with only ringing in his ears and echoing, uneasy thoughts of ‘ _oh shit, what did I do, I blew up the lab, is everyone okay_ ’ bouncing around in his head, he turned to chemistry.

_Hydrogen helium lithium beryllium_ …

Greg turned to chemistry even more so, during that gap of time between the gang leaving him in the alley and backup arriving. The sun crept over the horizon, and even as his eyes swelled shut some light penetrated his lids. The entire time, he speculated whether his attackers would risk coming back to finish him off. Sofia arrived before the ambulance, cleared the scene quickly, and checked him first. He still recalls her worried voice interrupting his internal recitation halfway through the lanthanoids.

“ _Greg? Greg, are you with me?_ ”

Here, now, chemistry is literally all he has as Whitney breathes down the back of his neck.

_…aluminum silicon phosphorous sulfur chlorine…_

She yawns, and it’s drawn out and exaggerated. “ _Boring_.”

_…argon potassium calcium…_

One of her arms snakes around his neck. The other hand clamps over his mouth and nose. He feels her weight on his shoulders, but can’t move, can’t even sink to the ground in submission. “ _Can you focus on your periodic table now, Greg_?”

… _scandium t-titanium vanadium_ …

She nestles against his back; grip unrelenting. “ _You go on and be stubborn. I’ve got all day._ ”

_…manganese shit ch-chromium manganese i-iron…_

Suddenly, the pain isn’t all he can feel. There is a warmth throughout his left hand, and although strange in its remoteness, it also brought comfort in the form of a small glimpse of light.

* * *

Two hours after Catherine delivered Sara the news about Nick, the man sat next to Sara at Greg’s bedside. He was in a wheelchair: the only way he could talk his doctor into letting him visit his friends. Nick had a dislocated shoulder that had already been put back into place by the medical team, a concussion, and several cuts and bruises but overall things certainly could have been worse considering the severity of the crash. Physically, he was feeling decent thanks to the pain medications. Mentally, he was exhausted, foggy from the concussion, and _fuming_.

“I can’t believe I lost her, Sara,” Nick grumbled as he watched over Greg, who was still motionless except for the machine that was performing the job his own body could not.

“There was nothing you could have done.” Despite going on very little sleep, Sara was wide awake. She’d managed to nod off for about an hour while waiting on Nick, but Brass woke her unintentionally when he stopped by to check on her and Greg. She updated him hurriedly before he had to leave again, and when Nick joined her, she’d had to update him also. Sara was already growing weary of describing Greg’s condition.

“She shot the pilot. She almost shot _me_. I should have made sure she wasn’t going anywhere.” Nick shook his head slowly, red-rimmed eyes not leaving the young man.

“It wasn’t your fault, Nick. Nobody is blaming you but yourself. I’m just happy you’re alright.” She offered him a genuinely grateful smile and patted his good shoulder.

He sighed. “I just want this to be over with as soon as possible.”

“Me too.”

A new, piercing beeping tone drew both of their attentions to the heart monitor, which now flashed a red light, then down to their friend, whose color was suddenly much lighter than before. Before they could register what was happening, Greg’s fists clenched and his body became rigid.

“Shit.” Nick jumped up from the wheelchair and started toward the nurses’ station as Sara pressed the call button attached to the bed. Three nurses were already on their way, and pushed Nick and Sara to the side as they surrounded Greg’s bed. One used a phone to send a 9-1-1 page to Dr. Holland, then helped the others attempt to steady their patient as his body began to convulse violently.

At a safe distance and out of the way, Nick pulled Sara into his arms as she started to cry.

“He’s seizing!” one of the nurses shouted, as if it wasn’t obvious, just as Dr. Holland rushed into the area at a near-sprint. He glanced briefly at Nick and Sara before tending to his patient.

“Okay, let’s get him four milligrams of lorazepam, I.V., slow. Watch his catheters. Put a hand on his forehead, keep him still.”

Sara pressed her face into Nick’s vest. She couldn’t watch. He held her tight and looked on anxiously. Twenty minutes later, the organized turmoil around Greg’s bed ceased and only the doctor remained. He turned to his patient’s friends and gestured at them to take their seats.

“The seizures are under control now. Unfortunately, it is a side effect from the lack of circulation to his brain, and we expected to deal with this at some point.”

“He’s in a medically induced coma, how can he have seizures?” asked Nick as he sat heavily back into ‘his’ wheelchair.

“Greg seems to be resistant to some medications, which is very problematic because I prefer to keep his doses low.”

“How often is this going to happen?” Sara inquired shakily.

“Hopefully, it won’t happen again. We have his anticonvulsant dosage increased for now. When he’s strong enough to wake up, we will wean him off the medications slowly. Like I said before, there is no conclusive way to tell how much his brain function is impacted until he regains consciousness.” Dr. Holland studied the two concerned CSIs. “I shouldn’t be saying this, but it’s a bit of a slow night. Why don’t you two catch some sleep in those empty beds? Doctor’s orders.” He winked at them, trying to lighten the mood somewhat.

Nick agreed to lay down in a neighboring bed, but Sara insisted on staying at Greg’s side, hand on his and head resting on her own arm. Both managed to fall asleep, but their dreams brimmed with their failure to rescue their friend sooner.

* * *

The next several days merged themselves in one long marathon of time, carrying intertwined images of Greg’s gradually healing body, feelings of anxiety, sadness and anger, and the monotonous clicks, beeps, and whirs of the machinery keeping him alive. Sara couldn’t sleep for more than an hour at a time in her own apartment nightmares startling her awake, so most of her time was spent at Greg’s side. Nick also spent a lot of time there. He was supposed to be taking a few days off but like Sara couldn’t stand to be at his own place for long. Each CSI still had individual protection assigned to them, as well as round-the-clock guards at the hospital. D.B. and Brass agreed this would continue until Whitney was located.

It wasn’t that Sara didn’t trust the policemen standing guard at the hospital to protect Greg. Her mind was simply more at ease when she had him in her own sights. Maybe that made her self-centered, but at this point she didn’t care; she just wanted Greg to wake up. Sara wanted Greg to wake up, to laugh, to crack jokes; hell, she would even welcome a few of his horribly timed, inappropriate anecdotes that would normally make her eyes roll. Anything would be better than his current state, which was very un-Greg-like in its excruciating stillness.

On the fourth night of Greg’s hospitalization, Sara sat in her normal position at his left side. The chair’s padding was worn and impressionable, and she was sure she had left a permanent cast of her ass there during the hours upon hours she occupied it. It was Nick’s first night back at work, and he had reluctantly left Sara and Greg to report to the lab.

Yesterday, Greg was relocated from the trauma unit to the intensive care unit. This was an upgrade from the much louder and more active environment to one where Greg at least had a large corner to himself and partial walls instead of only curtains for privacy. Nurses and doctors checked in frequently. They asked questions, checked vitals, and administered medications. Sometimes they wheeled Greg away for more testing. Sara stayed out of the way during these visits, thankful that so far no one asked her to leave when visiting hours ended at night. Most of the staff was aware of Greg’s story, or at least some of it. His disappearance and rescue were all over the news, quickly making national headlines. The presence of the uniformed officers, standing guard 24/7, was also hard to explain. So, they let Sara visit whenever—which was nearly always, knowing that she was also associated with law enforcement and involved in the protection of their patient.

Dr. Holland was one of Greg’s most frequent visitors. Sara thought that the man must get less than two hours of sleep a day, because he seemed to always be at the hospital. He kept Sara updated on Greg’s condition, asked her questions, and sometimes just sat and talked. He still did not want to risk surgery on his patient’s broken appendages, even though the longer they waited, scar formation around the shattered bones was more likely to complicate the procedures. He worried seriously about Greg’s liver and kidneys after the battering they’d endured, and he preferred to wait until his bloodwork values looked better.

Most of the time, this new area was peaceful. Quiet murmurings could be heard from staff members in other areas of the unit as they went about their jobs and took care of their patients. The atmosphere could become frenzied at times, however. Sara witnessed several different incidents of crash codes, which were bound to get every staff member on the move, with purpose. Not many were brought back, as is real life, and each time she would be reminded of how lucky they were to successfully resuscitate Greg. Each time, she would grip his hand harder and will him not to be next.

So, on this fourth day like the previous three, Sara sat as close to Greg as she could without interfering with the machinery, wires, and I.V. lines. She always lowered the guardrail while she was by him to better access his hand. She gripped it with her left hand and held the book she was barely able to focus on in her right. The words blurred in front of her, and a low buzzing sounded in her ears. She was sure she had read the same paragraph about twenty times. Stress and lack of both sleep and appetite for such an extended time—not only the four days since they rescued Greg but also the seven days that he was missing—left her in a surreal, fugue-like state.

This was why, when Greg’s hand twitched in hers, Sara was certain she imagined it. But then it twitched again, and she dropped the book in realization. It flapped to the floor forgotten as she leaned in, clutching his hand and looking to his still-bruised features for some other sign of life. “Greg?”

For nearly five minutes she sat like this, barely even blinking, so tense that her back and shoulders began to ache. Her heart leapt when one of his eyes finally cracked open, and slowly the other followed suit. His heartrate sped up, illustrated by the waves on the electrocardiogram’s screen on the opposite side of the bed as well as narrated by the soft beeps emanating from the same machine. He groggily scanned the room through slit eyes.

Sara enclosed his hand with both of her own and spoke softly, the welling tears of relief showing through in her voice. “You’re in the hospital, Greg. You’re safe.” His tired eyes found her, and his heart slowed once again to a steady rhythm. Sara smiled as reassuringly as she could bear. “Hey there.”

Greg assumed he was in a dream, one much more comforting than the nightmare he had lived previously, in which he was lucky if he was able to see Sara. If he saw her, she was either dead, dying, or running from him. Most of the time he could only listen as her voice echoed in his head. Her cries and screams, calling out for help but out of reach in some internal but distant land.

This was different. Soft daylight graced Sara’s features, her dark hair curled and tucked loosely behind her ears. She smiled at him, and he knew the warm touch on his hand belonged to her; had always belonged to her.

One of his eyebrows raised ever so slightly, causing her smile to widen. He managed to squeeze her hand weakly, then opened his mouth to try to speak. Greg didn’t want this dream to end, and tried to tell her so, but no sound left his lips.

“No, Greg, don’t talk. You won’t be able to. You have a tube going into your neck to help you breathe.”

He tried a sigh of frustration instead, but his breath was met with resistance. It was a foreign sensation, and Greg was not a fan of it. It wasn’t the same as when Whitney had her fun with him, but it was similar enough to serve as a stark reminder. He looked around at his surroundings again, feeling more awake now and second guessing that this was a dream.

He tried to turn his head, his heart sped up further, and he attempted to reach up to his neck. A wire taped to his left arm pulled against him, and his right arm barely responded to his brain’s commands to move. His chest heaved as he attempted to breathe through his mouth and nose but was blocked by the tube entering his trachea from his neck.

Sara reached and pressed the call button repeatedly then stood and leaned over him, trying to catch his attention. “Look at me. Don’t fight it.”

The agony, which had briefly alleviated when he first awoke, returned to him when he began to thrash. It was intense and spread throughout his entire being in a fraction of a second.

_That’s okay. I can deal with the pain._

He needed to get Whitney off him.

_Wait…where is Sara?_

As he continued to attempt to reach to his throat, seemingly forgetting she was there, Sara was forced to hold his wrists. He appeared to be flashing back into a recent memory, unaware of his actual surroundings. She despised the thought of doing further damage to his already bruised and cut arms, but she needed to stop him from tearing out any of his catheters or worse, the tube in his neck.

“Nurse, somebody?!” Sara yelled, trying not to panic herself as she watched Greg lose his mind. “I need some help over here!!”

Once again retreating into that far-off land, Sara yelled syllables that did not make any sense. Was Whitney hurting her again? More urgent voices joined in, ones he did not recognize, and the grip on his wrists was released but immediately replaced by firm holds on his shoulders and ankles. Several shadows bustled at his sides, and Greg struggled with all his might until his fight was chemically stolen from him. He sagged back against the bed, mind still racing but body stripped of strength.

On the ceiling, scorpion-Nick waved at him with two thin legs.


	19. Far from Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healing is a tricky concept. Especially when there are...complications.

_My soundtrack: “Finally Moving” by Pretty Lights, “Come Back” by Foo Fighters_

* * *

“I’m so sorry you had to witness that, Miss Sidle,” the doctor said, real regret evident in his tone and posture as he approached the anxious woman outside of the ICU.

“How is he?” Sara asked, uninterested in small talk. She’d been ushered out by staff just after two nurses and Dr. Holland took over restraining Greg. Backing out, she had watched a nurse inject the contents of a syringe into Greg’s I.V. line. It was obviously a sedative and had a nearly instantaneous effect on his body. He had collapsed back onto the mattress but his eyes remained wide open. Sara shuddered recalling his desperate expression as he gazed upwards with such intensity that she’d felt the need to glance up as well, convinced he saw something. Of course, there was nothing there but the ceiling, vents, and light fixtures. Once booted from the area, for an hour she paced; her conflicted emotions as restless as her tired body.

The doctor guided Sara back into the ICU, but stopped just inside the double doors. When he spoke again, his tone was sympathetic but grave. “Greg came close to tearing out his only real source of air. We needed to tranquilize and place him in restraints before he hurt himself or someone else.”

“He wouldn’t hurt somebody that was trying to help him,” Sara argued, feeling the need to defend her friend despite seeing his actions firsthand.

“I know,” Dr Holland said quickly. “I’m not doubting that Greg is normally a non-violent person. However, do try to remember that he just regained consciousness after seven days of captivity and four days in a coma. His body has been slowly healing from the incident while he slept, but his mind has only now begun to register what happened to him. At this point, no one knows how much he remembers. We don’t even know the entirety of what he experienced, which means that _anything_ could trigger him to panic and we’ll have no way to avoid it. The good news is that once the sedative kicked in and he relaxed somewhat, he was composed and reasonable while I talked to him.”

“He did appear to recognize me at first.”

“That _is_ a good sign. However, complete retrograde amnesia—the kind that you see in soap operas and movies—is not all that common after an experience like this. Instead of forgetting who he is and who his friends are, Greg is more likely to show generalized confusion over more recent events, such as his abduction and captivity. You may also notice changes in his personality, and his nervous system might be affected. We will evaluate all those things as soon as we’re able, but for now I would like to work on getting his airway healed, since that is an obvious and understandable trigger. He requires radiographs soon to make sure he didn’t further damage his fractured bones, but he needs to let the medications take effect so that he’s still for them.”

She sighed, frustrated for Greg at the countless hurdles he would need to jump in order to live some semblance of a normal life again.

“You can see him, if you’d like. He’s heavily medicated, but still awake the last I checked. I told him where he is, but nothing else about the case. No need to overwhelm him the first time he wakes up. Has the crime lab heard anything from his parents?”

Sara nodded. She had received the news from Nick earlier, who spoke to Greg’s alarmed father on the telephone this morning. “Yes, finally. They were doing charity work somewhere in West Africa; completely off the grid until this morning. That’s when they received all the calls and heard the voicemails.”

“That must have been terrifying for them. At least Greg had already been rescued by the time they found out.”

“I guess that _is_ some relief. They’re coming back as soon as they can, but it might be a few more days because of travel restrictions in that area.”

“Alright. You still have my number? Go ahead and give that to them. They can call me whenever they want, and I’ll keep them updated.”

“Thanks, doctor. I’ll let them know. I think I will go see him now. Maybe I can convince him to relax. Is he still…restrained?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. It’s the last thing I want to do considering the what he’s recovering from, but right now he is unpredictable, even sedated. I promise you they are designed to cause absolutely no harm physically to a person. And if you can convince him to relax, I’ll owe you.” Dr. Holland smiled kindly then left to check on his other patients.

Sara sighed again and apprehensively approached Greg’s side. After detecting that he was in fact, still awake, she spoke very softly. “Hey, Greg.”

His heavy-lidded eyes located her, and there was a spark of recognition in them, but it was much dimmer than before. Fortunately, the panic that filled his features when she last saw him was entirely gone, but uncertainty and insecurity had filled the void it left. Taking a deep breath, she pulled the chair— _her_ chair—closer, took a seat, and tentatively placed her left hand on top of his, noting that his fist was tightly clenched around a handful of the white sheet under it. He shivered and eyed her almost warily, but did not attempt to pull away. She shifted to the edge of the chair and smiled reassuringly. “It’s me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Using only slow motions, trying to project ‘calm’, she reached and began to run light fingers through his disheveled hair. He needed a haircut even before he disappeared, and now his hair was longer than it had been in a long time. The start to a beard was a strange sight on a man that had shown up to his job cleanshaven every day since before she met him. She knew he would want to shave as soon as he was allowed, but now there were cuts and scrapes everywhere on his skin, and his immune system still battled the powerful infection that had taken hold of his wounds a few days into his captivity.

Greg’s features softened, but then he glanced pointedly at the padded strap secured around his left wrist. _Good, you’re here. Take these off._

“I’m so sorry but they have to stay on, just for a little while longer. Doctor’s orders, not mine.”

He blinked slowly in reluctant acceptance and his gaze returned to the ceiling.

Sara moved her fingers to the side of his face, where she lightly thumbed a small unbruised area of his cheek. He turned slightly into her touch as he gradually relaxed more, his hand releasing the wrinkled fabric of the sheet.

“You’re safe. Get some rest. I’ll be right here.” She hated to lie, because she couldn’t actually remain at his side all of the time, but she told him what he needed to hear. Sara would admit later when he was better that she lied, and Greg, being himself, would forgive her and understand completely.

In just under ten minutes, his eyes finally closed, and after a few more minutes he drifted off into an exhaustion- and drug-induced sleep. Under her watch, his eyes continued to roll sporadically under dark lids, occasionally his nostrils flared, and a few times his hand twitched in Sara’s. Obviously, his mind was a very active place. She continued to stroke his hair and watch over him, knowing she should call the team and update them, but not willing to leave his side just yet.

Eventually, a small team of medical personnel entered and quietly wheeled Greg away to get x-rays. Decision now out of her hands, Sara pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed Grissom.

* * *

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I need to.”

The hulking warehouse loomed before the group at its main door. Being there with Nick, Grissom, and Brass was surreal to Sara after the events that took place within. Surrounded by friends and aware that Greg was safe, without her prior knowledge she could have easily believed the building to be ‘just another abandoned storage warehouse’. However, its demons were within its walls, absorbed into every surface and no amount of renovation would cleanse them. She hoped it would be demolished, and knew that most if not all of the team shared her reservations.

All the evidence collection and scene analysis had been finalized, but yellow crime scene tape still sealed all entrances to deter thrill-seekers and squatters alike. The old rusty chains and padlocks securing the entrance had been replaced and upgraded to ensure no one else got in.

When Sara called Grissom with an update from the hospital, he informed her the scene had been released. Her first thought was going back, and Gil had been only slightly taken aback. Sara herself couldn’t quite explain it; perhaps she hoped that walking through the place again could bring some semblance of closure. More likely, she sought to understand Greg to help with the recovery he faced. Getting a look around while mostly in her right mind could give her a handle on the causes of his wounds: physical but especially emotional.

The morning after Greg first woke up, D.B. somehow convinced Captain Brass to let Nick and Sara walk through the scene, even if they were both on leave. Nick only agreed to go to back up his friend. He hadn’t been there since the night Greg was rescued, and even then, it had been dark. But the blurred details briefly lit by the beam of a flashlight weren’t things he wanted to revisit. The fact that Sara wanted to go back was tough for him to grasp, but not as tough as one would expect. Although he worried this might not be the best move for her to make, he knew that _she_ believed it was, and that was good enough for Nick Stokes. Each of his teammates had backed him up in situations like this, so the least he could do was return the favor.

As they entered, Sara glanced to the table on her left, from which she grabbed the cellphone during her escape. When she ran away from Greg. There was a guilty pang in her stomach that she quickly suppressed. The time for dealing with her responsibility and self-pity would come, but not now. Not in this place.

The first room—the enormous storage area that Sara now knew once stored nuclear weapons parts—wasn’t too difficult to enter. Nothing terrible happened here; at least not to her. The other three followed, but at a small distance as they crossed the dimly lit area to the line of three rooms along the east wall. Sara hesitated for quite a long time at the entrance to the improvised dungeon, the first room. The door was already propped open, but the smell at the threshold was almost intolerable, both in its intensity and the memories it evoked. Most people don’t know that the smell of decomp doesn’t actually require a whole, decaying body. Just toss a few of the ‘ingredients’ together, add a dash of heat and time, and Sara might as well be entering a room containing a dozen rotting corpses.

Her face instinctively contorted into a smile to suppress the gag reflex, but it was more akin to a grimace as she pulled on some booties to protect her shoes before entering. Nick was close behind. Grissom and Brass stood at a distance, lingering in the main room. They’d spent more than enough time in this place, especially that room. Along with D.B. and Catherine, Grissom had processed and collected the majority of the evidence in the huge building. Even the strongest menthol gel under their noses and the hottest shower after work couldn’t mask or rid them of the smell, although they all guessed it was somewhat psychological considering their closeness to the case.

The small space had been nearly stripped bare by the investigators. The chains, ropes, chairs, buckets, and even the straw bale and the hooks in the walls were brought to the lab to analyze. The stains in the concrete lingered; those would be impossible to entirely remove without deconstructing the room itself. Sara led the way in a circle, pausing at each especially large blood stain or splatter, knowing the ones that belonged to Greg because they were brighter red than the older samples. She did veer away from the corner that once contained the buckets, because the ground there still crawled with insect larva. It had obviously been where prisoners were forced to use the bathroom, and she didn’t need to know anything else right now.

The middle room smelled much better, and appeared to be under construction. It had plywood installed over three of the cement walls as well as fluorescent lighting fixtures on the ceiling. Sara recalled Whitney’s comment just before throwing her in with Greg: _“I’m only putting you in with him because the other rooms aren’t yet set up for containment. We’re working on it…You really don’t deserve to see him, but I don’t trust you anywhere less secure.”_

If this room was meant to be a second, upgraded dungeon, Whitney and her goon really did have big plans for this place. Plans that extended far beyond the scope of revenge on those that testified against her. _‘How many victims have they tortured and killed in the other room? How many remain on their list? Or is there no list?’_ Sara speculated in her head. She wished this all made more sense; wished they had more information.

The bathroom, which she hadn’t yet seen either, was the last room to enter. The porcelain tub was drained, but retained a grimy ring of blood and dirt residue near the top. Red, smudged handprints stained the rim as if somebody tried to pull themselves up from the bottom. More blood and smears decorated the floor next to the tub; it appeared that someone had lay there bleeding, possibly while sustaining more injuries. Sara remembered Whitney’s comment about Greg’s experience in the tub and shuddered. She wondered if he would ever want to talk about it, and part of her selfishly hoped he wouldn’t.

She was so lost in thought that Nick’s voice startled her.

“This is the last room, Sara. Do you feel…have you seen enough?”

Dragging her gaze from the disturbing scene and her mind from the gaps in Greg’s experience that her too-creative imagination desired to fill, she blinked at him. “Yes.”

“Do you want to visit him now?”

They had only just been there, but Greg had been asleep. Plus, after seeing the warehouse again, Nick felt the nagging need to see the younger investigator again for himself; ensure he was still safe. And if Nick felt this way, he knew that Sara would also.

As predicted, she nodded gratefully. “Definitely. Let’s go.”

* * *

Greg gripped the sheets with the only hand that he could feel. Yesterday, he remembered being terrified that his right arm was gone, and he hadn’t been able to force the muscles in his sore neck and shoulders to allow him to check on it. Somehow, his doctor had read his mind and reassured him: _“I injected a nerve-blocking agent into your right shoulder to help with the pain. It only lasts about twenty-four hours, so we will need to perform the injection again soon.”_

That all made perfect sense to Greg, but its logicality did little to reassure the jumpy, kid-Greg whimpering in the back of his mind like a terrifed science nerd cowering in his locker waiting for the bully, Colin Finck to give up his search.

 _Whoa, whoa! Where did_ that _reference come from?_

‘ _You were bullied,_ ’ kid-Greg reminded him now. _‘You didn’t tell anybody because you didn’t want people to worry. Can you imagine what mom would have done? You’d have been a real-life bubble-boy. Wait…did you really forget all of that?’_

 _‘Ooh, juicy!’_ squeaked Whitney. Her voice was distant and muffled; how a person might sound who stood two closed-doors away. Greg knew that she wasn’t really in his hospital room. He didn’t know if she was in custody, or even alive, but he believed it unlikely she would be anywhere nearby. The voices were all in his head.

_Is that supposed to comfort me?_

_‘Of course not! Who said anything about comfort?’_ Kid-Greg sighed. Roles reversed: young lectured older. _‘You_ shouldn’t _feel comfortable. At some point they’re going to inject you with things again. Remember what happened before? It burns. And they’ll do_ things _to you while you’re passed out.’_

Despite the hospital-prescribed drug cocktail Greg knew flowed into his veins via the I.V. lines, he knew where he was and why he was there. He also vaguely remembered why he currently had restraints on his wrists and ankles, and the reasoning seemed rational. He couldn’t blame the hospital staff. Greg had been an uncooperative patient, and the restraints were for his own good. But the pressure could be felt even through the thick bandages covering the wounds from the last time he’d been tied up, and kid-Greg didn’t like that, either.

_They’re not going to do anything to me here. I’m safe._

At least, that was what Greg told himself as his fingers wound themselves into the sheets, and he repeatedly clenched and relaxed his fist. Scorpion-Nick no longer clung to the ceiling, but the medications induced other phantoms there: whirlwinds of shadows and bursts of color in the normally flat, white surface. It was beautiful, but these illusions too attempted to lull him to sleep.

Greg had two current goals: retain his memories, and stay awake. The memories, he clutched tighter than the thin hospital sheets under his left hand because they were _his_. Too many blank spaces of time took up his stay in that dark place, so they served as some comfort. Awake, he had the physical discomfort. Asleep he still had that, but Whitney had _him_. He still heard her when he was awake, but she only took control when he drifted off to sleep. She was relentless. Everything worked against him; the sedatives coursed through him and tried to send him spiraling back down into her lair. His younger self urged him to

_stop lying to yourself all of the voices are you_

_boring current-version you_

_simply going batshit crazy_

fall asleep, but that must have been a mistake, because the kid seemed the most scared of feeling powerless.

But Greg fought the exhaustion, fought the voices, because for some reason the only time he could rest somewhat peacefully was when he had company, and right now the seat next to him that Sara normally occupied was empty. He needed her. He needed _someone_ there, as hard as it was to admit. Nick, Catherine, D.B., hell he’d even take Hodges. At least he could serve as a distraction. An annoying distraction.

He lay in his hospital bed unable to move and waited. The voices, the conversations between his ears continued but he resolved to pay them little heed and did not contribute. He was too tired to argue, even with himself. It helped somewhat to identify, one by one, the sounds that Greg _knew_ were real: the machines buzzing and whirring and dripping and beeping, the soft voices of doctors and nurses as they scurried around outside of his sight, the rattles and whooshes of the ceiling vents.

When he finally had visitors again, he was so focused on the ceiling and sounds that his first clue was the warm touch on his clenched hand. He jumped slightly before recognizing the touch. His eyes burned from exhaustion, but he turned them sluggishly and saw Sara in her chair. Nick stood just behind her. They both smiled at him, but their smiles didn’t carry to their eyes.

_Stop worrying about me, guys. I’m fine._

Sara’s hand raised to his head and the light stroking began through his hair again, and he immediately allowed his eyes to close.

_I’m fine._

_I’m fine._

_I’m fine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the new chapter!! I've been trying to edit and correct chapters one at a time, and have noticed a couple things I would like to clarify:
> 
> 1\. Apparently, I can't write Morgan. I like her character, but I just can't write her. I think I tried to add her earlier in the story, but then she just disappeared. 😂 So let's just say that Morgan doesn't exist for the purpose of this series.  
> 2\. I'm unaware of any human medical conditions that cause someone to be resistant to sedatives and pain medications, but something like that might exist? Either way, I'm keeping it--I never claimed to be an expert.
> 
> The rest of the story will be a bit faster-paced, in that time will skip a bit because I'm not going to write out every second of Greg's recovery (as much as I wish I could), but I will certainly try to cover the biggest steps because h/c is life, and Greg deserves as much comfort as possible after all of his hurt! 
> 
> I'm still estimating another four chapters in this work (and have some of the sequel typed up), but that number is subject to change (likely increase) as I continue to fine-tune the ending.
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you for the comments, bookmarks, and kudos! Please let me know how I'm doing!


	20. Mind Over Matter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a long chapter to make up for the long wait. Enjoy! Review and let me know how I'm doing =)

_My soundtrack: “Mechanical” by Diefenbach, “Take Me Under” by Three Days Grace_

Forty-eight hours after waking up from the induced coma, Greg had another CT scan performed. After going over the results, Dr. Holland reported to the investigators that the swelling in Greg’s throat seemed improved. The primary goal was to get Greg breathing without the ventilator, so he was scheduled for anesthesia to remove the tracheostomy tube. After shift the day of the procedure, Grissom—who booked a hotel room in Vegas for at least the next two weeks—along with Catherine, Nick, and D.B. convinced Sara to go to breakfast with them. If they hadn’t, she would have waited anxiously at the hospital, and likely not eaten anything. They’d practically needed to drag her from the lab to the diner, since she was accustomed to heading straight to the hospital to see Greg both on her breaks and every morning.

Not that she had scheduled shifts for which to report. Both Sara and Nick were technically on administrative leave. Ecklie and the city of Las Vegas dutifully apologized for their trouble and insisted they take some well-deserved, paid time off after their ordeal. Nick was forced to take at least a week to recover from the helicopter crash, and Sara a month. Although they broke the rules of administrative leave each time they entered the crime lab and especially when attending briefings, the higher-ups tended to show more leniency when one of their own was involved and the case still active.

The conversation over their morning meal inevitably shifted to the Adams case, because at least talking all of the facts through allowed them to believe they were accomplishing _something_. Search parties continued to scour a generous radius around the helicopter’s crash site, but so far there was still no sign of Whitney Adams. The search effort itself was winding down; only so much manpower and resources should be utilized in a case where the missing person is more than likely deceased. An officer remained posted at the hospital for Greg, although they now took shifts at only his door instead of all entrances to the building. Sara also had her own police escort when she wasn’t at work or with co-workers, but there were talks of suspending that soon if Whitney still hadn’t been found.

The case overall was at a near standstill until more information was received. Archie had analyzed footage from the Harris’s household security cameras and caught Harris coming and going during the time that his mother claimed she had no idea where he was. Although they knew she was far from innocent, the team was unable to pin Harris’s mother with anything other than aiding and abetting a fugitive, and even that charge was shaky at best. The woman was inconsolable after Harris’s death, and as long as she didn’t cause any more trouble, so far it was the collective opinion of the LVPD and crime lab that the loss of her only son would be enough punishment.

Catherine was the first to bring up the subject after the small-talk dwindled. Earlier that morning, she had reviewed Harris’s autopsy report with David Phillips, the assistant coroner, and she was eager to fill everyone in. “Turns out the guy met an elaborate fate. Not only was he thrown from the sedan during its first flips, but an extreme swelling in his foot was also noted during autopsy, along with the beginnings of infection and tissue necrosis. He sent a sample to tox, and the answer’s in at last: scorpion toxin.”

Grissom frowned. “What, did he have an extreme sensitivity, an allergy? There aren’t any scorpions native to Nevada that should’ve caused a reaction that severe.”

“Well, that’s because it’s _not_ native to Vegas. The venom belonged to something called an ‘Indian Red Scorpion’.”

“ _Hottentotta tamulus_?” Grissom exclaimed.

“Bless you,” Nick mumbled between bites of pancakes.

Catherine rolled her eyes and went on. “Must have been somebody’s escaped pet. But wait, there’s more!” She paused for effect, drawing everyone’s full, slightly irritated attention. “His throat was cut. Deep. Severed the carotid.”

Sara’s eyes narrowed. “Wasn’t there a knife found near the scene?”

“Yep, a paring knife, and according to Super Dave, it indeed did the deed.”

“What the hell happened in that car?” Nick asked no one in particular.

With Whitney Adams still unaccounted for and Greg unable to tell his side of the story, the answer to that eluded them all. They knew that Greg, Harris, and Adams occupied the vehicle, and the evidence at the wreck told them that Adams drove. A large amount of Greg’s blood was discovered in the trunk, along with a smaller amount in the backseat of the sedan, so he had been in both locations at some point. They knew that Adams was injured but survived, and that Greg was badly hurt and attacked further by Adams following the accident. Lastly, they knew Harris perished—from one of three possible causes. David informed Catherine what probably killed Harris _first_ , but she would only share that information if absolutely necessary. Just like whose fingerprints were discovered on the handle. She knew it would all come out in the open eventually, but the lab had more important things to focus on than speculation and gossip.

“When I was in the warehouse, I noticed Whitney had a paring knife,” Sara said thoughtfully after a moment, “and I don’t know why I didn’t remember until now, but a paring knife was the suspected type of blade used on Thomas O’Bryan. I always thought it was an odd choice, and we never were able to find the actual weapon.”

“I’ll have it compared to the pictures from the O’Bryan case.” Catherine sighed. She thought about Greg’s numerous cuts, and how the paring knife matched them as well.

Sara slowly digested this new information. New was good; new meant forward motion. Greg’s procedure also meant forward motion, but that didn’t keep her from worrying. “When Harris brought me to that warehouse, Whitney talked about how I didn’t appreciate Greg, how he’s liked me for so long—” She flushed and glanced briefly at Grissom. He only smiled supportively at her, and she continued. “Greg barely played a role in the Adams case ten years ago, at least not an obvious one. He still worked in the DNA lab at that time, so he was behind the scenes. He processed some of the evidence, but he never testified. He did come the day that I testified, as well as the day of the verdict. He knew that the case had me especially…riled, and wanted to be there for me. It just doesn’t make any sense that she focused so much on him, though.”

They all had a good idea why the case had affected her more than others. She grew up in foster care, just like the sisters. They were using their abuse in the system as an excuse for becoming murderous later in life, and that not only angered Sara but triggered some deeply rooted fears in her that she’d repressed for so long.

“There’s a whole lot that still doesn’t make sense,” Catherine agreed. “Wasn’t Doc Robbins’s testimony before yours? If Whitney’s going in order, like she said on the telephone call, wouldn’t she have gone after him first?”

“Yes,” Sara confirmed. “Maybe she’s confused, or maybe it’s because his testimony was a video recording because he couldn’t be at the trial. He couldn’t even be cross-examined.”

“So, Whitney focused in on you because you testified in person, saw you hanging out with Greg and focused on him also?”

“Something like that.” Sara’s tone was defeated. She wished she could believe that once Greg told his story, the scattered bits of information would magically assemble themselves into a sensible mosaic, but she’d worked around enough psychopaths to know that what happened could _never_ make sense.

“What about Phelps?” D.B. asked suddenly. He’d been quiet almost the entire conversation, eating his food while casually listening in on the others, and his question caught everyone—especially Sara—off-guard. Sara and Grissom knew immediately who he meant, but the others had to consider it a moment.

“Phelps?” Nick paused to think where he knew the name from. “Nathan Phelps? The prosecutor?”

D.B. nodded. “I mean, the guy basically led the firing squad against the sisters. We’ve all gone over the court transcripts. He didn’t go easy on them. Wouldn’t Whitney go after him first?”

“He’s no longer in the area,” Sara responded. “He moved away from Vegas not long after the Adams case. She probably couldn’t find him.”

Catherine chuckled lightly as she used her fork to stab at the remaining omelet on her plate. “How long _did_ you date that guy, Sara?”

Nick’s eyes widened. “That’s right! How could I forget that?”

Sara flushed again and scowled at her coworkers. Around the time of the first Adams case, she’d been stressed with her career choices and angry with Grissom for being completely oblivious to her feelings, and she began dating Nathan after a case they were both involved in. He was a nice enough guy, but Sara soon realized that she’d been using him as a distraction and ended it. “We saw each other— _casually_ —for a few months. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Someone should call and check in on him. If Whitney is still alive, he might be in danger.”

“You’re on that, right Sara?” Nick winked at her from across the table and she glared back.

* * *

They’d told him they were going to get him breathing on his own again. They’d told him they would hopefully be able to close that hole in his neck. That all sounded great, so Greg let them inject the induction drug into his I.V. line; not that he really had a choice with the restraints still in place. That familiar falling sensation fluttered in his stomach, and he was pulled under and into Whitney’s lair once more. Her voice echoed throughout his mind…

_“I told you to call me Amber, Greggy._

_What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? Oh no, that’s right—I do. Ha!_

_Anyway, we still need to have a chat about that little stunt you pulled in the car. Do you remember that? How you seem to think you can do whatever you want, that your actions have no consequences? Well, I_ tried _to demonstrate what happens to weak little men that make choices they have no right making. I nearly succeeded, too, but your so-called friends showed up just in time. How convenient._

_Another thirty seconds and you’d have stayed dead._

_Hmm. Where were these ‘friends’ when you needed them earlier? Do you plan to ask them?_

_And by the way, don’t get the idea you could ever get away from me. I’ll be right here, whenever you close your eyes._

_And whenever you forget, I’ll just give you another little taste of my very_ real _hold on you._

_Just…like…this.”_

Greg’s ability to breathe is gone.

_Not again._

This time, there is no gradient, no last second to suck in a bit more air; one moment there is oxygen, beautiful oxygen, and the next it’s gone. It’s _her_ hands around his neck, squeezing; he knows it even though she took his eyes.

_“What’s wrong? Where’s that spunk now?”_

Fear rapidly upgrades to panic. He can’t take this anymore. Her control over him isn’t fair; she takes something from him that every living creature on earth has a right to.

Then, Nick’s voice, close but not close enough: _“What seems to be the problem?”_

Greg wants to sob in relief, because help has arrived. Whether in the form of an imaginary scorpion, or a mere voice in his head, Nick never disappoints. Besides, when Nick is there, Amber is not.

_Nick! Help me, please._

_“Yeah, I’m here, man.”_

_She has me again._

_“I see that, and what am I supposed to do about it?”_

He’s shocked at first, because Nick isn’t normally so condescending but Greg knows it’s a good point. Amber cannot hurt him, not _this_ Amber, because she’s a manifestation of Greg’s subconscious. What happened to the real Amber, he has no idea, but he’s sure that he’s still in the hospital. He remembers that Sara said he was safe and that nothing else could happen to him now. It’s odd to harness such clarity in a nightmare, but it doesn’t bring him as much hope as he thinks it should.

But using that same logic, Nick isn’t really here either; so, can he even count on his advice?

_If Amber—wait, how long have I been doing that?—if_ Whitney _isn’t actually here…then why can’t I breathe?_

_“I think you’re overcomplicating things, man,”_ Nick reasons casually. _“Maybe it’s not that you_ can’t _breathe. Maybe you forgot how.”_

_That’s ridiculous, nobody forgets how to breathe._

_“Then fucking_ breathe _!”_

Air dwindling, fading fast, he urgently tries to make sense of what Nick is demanding. 

“Come on, Mr. Sanders, stop holding your breath.”

_What?! I’m not—_

Suddenly, it was as if an airlock burst open and Greg greedily, desperately, inhaled an enormous volume of oxygen. It rushed into his chest, inflating his lungs further than the ventilator had, and stretching his still healing ribcage. His overwhelmed senses reacted to the crunching of bone-on-bone and pulling of stitches on skin by forcibly evicting the air in violent coughs.

Several voices now surrounded him, but none of them were Whitney or Nick. Or Sara. Through Greg’s delirium he did recognize that of his doctor. Now he knew he was once more away from Whitney’s hold. It was only now that he felt the pressure around his mouth and nose—a mask—and this sensation worried him more than anything else. A very small, timid voice in his head reminded him _‘you’re in a hospital, duh, hospitals use oxygen masks’_ but all he could think about was Whitney and her carbon dioxide.

His eyes flew open, but the world was all blinding light and color and haze. At least four shapes bustled around him, and when he tried to reach up and remove the mask, to sit up or at least roll onto his side, firm hands held him in place. All he wanted to do was get that thing off of his face; to curl around his aching body and wait for the agony to end, but the hands wouldn’t let him.

“Can you hear me, Mr. Sanders? I need you to try to calm down, alright?”

Greg would have laughed at how absurd the request was if he hadn’t been so busy freaking out. He shook his head from side to side, tried to use the pillow under him to push the mask off. He couldn’t get a decent breath, and a much louder voice in his mind screamed that without it, he would be able to breathe normally.

He was starting to wonder how many different voices occupied his own head.

“Get the nasal canula,” Dr. Holland asked a nurse calmly before looking back down at his patient. “Mr. Sanders, I need you to focus on me. The mask is supplying you with concentrated oxygen, which you need, but I’m going to trade it out for a tube that will go to your nose instead. Would that be better?”

Greg managed to bob his head. He bit his tongue, drawing blood when the movement provoked a sharp pull at the cut in his neck and the damaged tissues of his throat.

Right on cue, the nurse returned and the mask was thankfully replaced by plastic tubing that entered his nostrils and tucked behind his ears. It was uncomfortable, and he was a bit embarrassed by the reflexive jerk that he gave when the nurse’s hand reached at his face, but it was nothing compared to the larger mask and the flashbacks it triggered. However, its absence neglected to calm Greg’s breathing. He wheezed harshly and, in his panic, fought against the hands pinning him down.

“I know that you’re in a lot of pain but we’re pushing more opioids now, and it will help if you sit still,” Dr. Holland’s voice continued on, tone steady and soothing, but he was worried that if Greg didn’t calm down soon, he would need to be heavily sedated and possibly even intubated again. His heart was racing and his breathing pattern ineffective.

The pain _was_ everywhere and it was unlike any Greg had experienced before, even while still in that warehouse. He knew his movements weren’t helping matters but they seemed to be out of his control. It was especially excruciating in his chest and throat when he tried to breathe and he wanted the doctor to put the damn tube back in, _anything_ so that he didn’t have to work so hard to stay alive.

“GREGORY! You _can_ breathe on your own, and you _will._ ”

There was something in the doctor’s near-shout that drew Greg’s wild eyes to him. He felt caught, as if his thoughts had been read, and now Dr. Holland knew precisely how weak he was. Normally Greg would have brushed his self-pity into a dark corner of his mind, rationed it into tiny piles for those rare moments he allowed himself to indulge it. But his ability to suppress was gone, and he could only hope it returned before his friends did.

And, Dr. Holland called him Gregory. Only his mom did that.

“Good,” the young doctor nodded and smiled kindly when their eyes met. “I understand it’s tough but the slower you breathe, the less it will irritate your airway.”

Greg made a noble effort to quiet himself down and slow his breathing, and it started to work. The coughs continued to interrupt both his inhalations and exhalations, but they grew further apart. His heartrate slowed. Finally, he lay flat on his back, no longer straining against the hands of the nurses. Waves of pain kept his muscles tense, but the medications were finally beginning to kick in and exhaustion took over. Greg wheezed weakly and sweat glistened on his forehead.

The doctor raised his eyebrows as he observed his patient. Greg nodded once: _I’m good._

Dr. Holland nodded as well, but his was directed at the three nurses around the hospital bed. They pulled their hands tentatively away from Greg and busied themselves with other tasks, but were clearly ready to leap back to his side at a moment’s notice if needed. Greg shakily reached up to his throat with his left arm.

“Don’t—” Dr. Holland began, but stopped when he only briefly touched the bandage where the tube had once been, then lowered the arm lightly across his chest.

Breaths still strained but not nearly as panicked, a thought occurred to Greg. He raised his hand to his throat once more and parted his lips, eyes asking a silent question.

“With the tube removed, you are technically able to talk again. That being said, I would rather you do so minimally, and when you do, only whisper…” Dr. Holland went on. Greg tried hard to pay attention and process the words, but he found it difficult with the meds numbing everything. Eventually the doctor and nurses wandered away, and Greg stared at the ceiling in their absence as he fought to remain conscious.

* * *

When Sara returned to the hospital after breakfast, she caught herself tracing her memorized route through the hallways much faster than was warranted. She forced herself to slow down, reminding herself that the hospital would have called one of them if something had gone wrong. When she was two turns away from the ICU, Sara nearly ran into Dr. Holland as they both rounded a corner at the same time.

“Oh, Miss Sidle! Sorry about that.”

Sara laughed lightly at his apology: she’d nearly knocked the man down. “It’s alright, I’m at least partially to blame. I was just coming to check on Greg. Did everything—”

Dr. Holland was already nodding. “I was just heading to my office to call you. The tracheostomy tube is removed and the incision is closed. We had to improvise a bit, but Greg is breathing on his own and we’ve moved him into his own room.”

She sighed in relief before realizing that the doctor had sandwiched a possible negative between a bunch of positives. “What do you mean, you had to improvise?”

“Don’t worry. After we anesthetized Greg, we passed a scope down his trachea to make sure the swelling was resolved enough to remove the tube. The inflammation is much better than it was before, but his airway still only has the diameter of a drinking straw, which is less than ideal. The scar tissue forming around the damage is hindering us. However, I didn’t want to continue to keep Greg tranquilized around the clock to ward off panic attacks triggered by the ventilator.”

Sara grimaced at the memory of Greg’s attack yesterday. She feared that simply fixing his ability to breathe would not fix all his reasons to panic.

The doctor continued, wanting to clarify. “I consulted with some colleagues, and made the decision to place a tracheal stent and go forward with closing the tracheostomy. A stent should be less irritating and less invasive to Greg, and he’ll be able to talk. We could only expand it so much with the stent before risking perforating it, but we were able to widen it to just over a half-inch. This is still narrow, but it’s enough to breathe through and better than what he was working with. My hope is that in a couple more weeks, we can go back in and remove it. Until then, we’ll monitor his oxygen levels and keep him on high-flow oxygen by way of nasal cannulas. I’d prefer to use a mask because it’s more effective, but…he won’t tolerate it.”

Sara swore. “The carbon dioxide.”

Dr. Holland didn’t feel the need to describe exactly how Greg woke up from surgery. He could still see the fear in his patient’s eyes, but also the humiliation. The man was calm now, and desperately needed to retain what little dignity he had left. “I do remember you bringing up the that incident. I would have tried the mask either way, since it’s the best way to supplement oxygen to him. As I said, we will continue to learn what his triggers are as his recovery progresses. Some may be obvious, but most he will be forced to face at some point. I’m not a psychiatrist, but I do know that avoidance is an ineffective healing technique.”

She nodded and smiled sadly but gratefully. “You’re right. Thank you, doctor.”

“No problem. Feel free to go see him. He’s in ward four, room five. He was awake last I checked, but his throat is going to be extremely sore for a long time and he needs to keep the talking to a minimum.” He gave Sara brief directions before continuing on his way.

After making the rest of the trip to Greg’s new accommodations, she hesitated just outside the open door to watch him. She listened to his shallow but steady breaths, now self-regulated, and she felt a surge of pride in him. Something as automatic—as mechanical—as breathing never looked the same once you see someone you care about hooked up to a ventilator.

The bed was slanted and his torso was propped upright with pillows. Narrow oxygen tubing entered each nostril and looped behind each ear to meet again over his heavily bandaged throat. His eyes were open and he stared at the ceiling, just like how she’d last seen him but minus the breathing tube.

Finally entering the room, Sara smiled as she took her usual seat. Even if he wasn’t looking at her, she knew he could hear her smile in her voice. “Hi Greg.”

His gaze travelled listlessly to hers. He was clearly still feeling the effects of the anesthesia that had been used for his procedure as well as the pain meds they had him on. Nevertheless, Greg’s deep brown eyes showed recognition and appreciation when he saw who had arrived at his side. A small bandage was secured over where the tracheostomy device had been. She wondered if it too would leave a scar.

“Hey,” The word left his lips in a hoarse whisper. 

Sara laid her hand on his and leaned in to better hear him. “You don’t need to talk if it hurts. I just wanted to visit and see how your procedure went. Your doctor says it went well.”

“Well,” Greg grimaced with the effort it took to form just a whisper, “No tube sticking out of my neck anymore, so I guess it could have gone worse.” He ended his observation with a stiff, humorless smile.

She squeezed his hand, wishing he didn’t always feel the need to joke around but grateful he was able now. Greg looked down at their hands, and Sara couldn’t read his expression but it could have been unease. She was unsure of where even their friendship stood and didn’t want to push him too far, so she quickly withdrew her hand. She missed the flash of disappointment on his features before it vanished in the blink of an eye and he looked down at the sheets.

Once his hand was free, he reached up to wiggle the tube on his nose.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to mess with that,” Sara chided gently.

He pouted but lowered his hand.

Sara cleared her throat. Before Greg had the ability to talk, there was no simple way to tell what he remembered from the ordeal. At one point, Catherine tried to get him to write on a sheet of paper, but it had only frustrated him because his left hand was his non-dominant hand and it was the only one he could use. Dr. Holland quickly put an end to that. But now that Sara had a chance to find out, she was unsure how to go about it. How long should they wait before getting his story? Obviously, his throat needed to heal, but if they waited too long would he remember less?

Either way, there was something she needed him to know first. Whether Greg remembered this detail or not, he was bound to find out sooner or later: she left him there; ditched him at that warehouse. Because of her actions, he obtained even more injuries. Because of her actions, he had actually _died_.

The words left her mouth in a rush because she knew that if she didn’t say anything now she might never get up the courage again. “I want to apologize to you. I know nothing I say will make up for what I did, and I don’t even know what you remember from that place, but—”

“Sara,” he interrupted. His throat ached, but Sara seemed upset and he needed to know why. His speaking her name simply prodded her to explain without so many words.

She took a deep breath. “I left you there, in that warehouse.”

The realization finally hit him, and he shook his head slowly. “No. It made sense, Sara. I wasn’t going anywhere, so I wanted you to go.”

Tears welled in her eyes and one spilled down her cheek, nearly reaching her chin before she brushed it away. “But I should have done something more; something to help you faster than… _hours_ later. I could have waited outside, ambushed them somehow.”

He stared at her. Sara rarely cried, but recently she’d cried multiple times that he knew of, and he hated to think he was the cause. Her appearance tugged at his heart and he grabbed her hand again, clutching it despite how weak he felt. Any awkwardness that may have existed before had apparently vanished, and one corner of his mouth curved upward as he tried to cheer her up. “I heard them talking about it. You dodged them and stole their phone right out from under their noses? That’s badass.”

Sara chuckled sadly. “So, you do remember.”

“You escaped and called for help, and because of that I’m _alive_.”

She rested her other hand on top of his and squeezed it lightly. “Okay.”

Sara believed Greg’s claim that he held nothing against her and this brought her some relief. However, his avoidance of her comment about his memory bothered her slightly. She considered all of the possible implications of this, and wondered which would be worse: remembering everything, or nothing?

“And this?” Greg interrupted her internal reverie, catching her eyes once more then looking pointedly at their intertwined hands. “This, I could get used to.”

She rewarded him with a smile, a _real_ smile, and that one sight caused him to relax substantially.

He was clearly tiring, eyelids heavy, but when he glanced at her next his deep brown eyes were enquiring. Greg remembered most of his time in the warehouse, and he even remembered the wreck. What he couldn’t seem to recall was his actual rescue and of course his time in the hospital before he woke up. The whole timeline was blurry to him since every minute in that warehouse felt like a year.

Sara seemed to read his thoughts. While he still had the breathing tube, the fragility of his condition had stopped her from delivering too much news to him. Her time with him had been primarily silence; an amicable companionship that brought both of them the comfort they required to be able to get some rest. Sara knew that the questions he had must be driving him nuts, and she couldn’t protect him forever from the truth. “Do you want me to fill you in? At least, as much as I can?”

He nodded appreciatively and took a long, shaky breath.

“We believe you were taken from a bar after work missing for seven days. I was there, in that warehouse with you for the last night. You’ve been in the hospital for another six.”

Greg squinted at her as she talked, finally noticing the stitched cut high on her forehead and partially concealed by stray wisps of dark hair. “Are you okay?” he worried, indicating the injury.

She smiled. “I’m fine, Greg. You don’t have to worry about me at all.”

He nodded again, but Sara caught him looking her over, undoubtedly checking for more. Once satisfied, he shifted his position and tried to get comfortable, wincing at the movement.

“Harris?” he suddenly asked, though his eyes had closed.

She hesitated. “Dead.”

He frowned. “Whitney?”

She hesitated longer. “Greg, you really don’t need to worry about any of this right now. You’re safe now. Your only concerns should be resting and healing.”

Soft brown eyes cracked open again, studied her carefully. “So, she’s still out there.”

“You’re safe,” she repeated quietly but firmly. A confirmatory answer in the form of a promise. 

His gaze wandered over her shoulder, eyes glistening. This was what he had feared.

_‘I’ll be right here, whenever you close your eyes. And whenever you forget, I’ll just give you another little taste of my very_ real _hold on you. Just…like…this.’_

Greg’s eyes slammed shut and his grip on Sara’s hand tightened until it hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I changed the prosecutor (Phelps)'s first name to Nathan because it WAS William and I definitely already have a William in this story. Sure, it's a common name but that was just laziness 🤣 (Extra fun fact: I changed it to Adam at first, then remembered that's the sisters' last name. How have I gotten this far in life?? lmao)


	21. Allies and Aliases

_Nevada v. Adams & Adams: Verdict_

_Ten Years Ago_

Sara received the call from Nathan Phelps letting her know that the verdict was in on the Adams sisters just as she lay her head down on her pillow after an especially long and emotionally taxing shift. After three days of deliberation, Sara was ready to get this case off her mind, so she was wide-awake immediately and arrived at the courthouse with time to spare. She stood near the back of the cavernous room. Nathan sat on the prosecution’s side near the front, and she could just barely make out his leg bouncing nervously beneath the table.

The sisters were positioned on opposite ends of the defendants’ table, heads down and looking at their hands in their laps. It was impossible from Sara’s angle to make out which was which; their dark hair obscured their faces and they shared nearly identical figures.

The quiet in the courtroom was deafening as all in attendance waited anxiously for the jury to file out of their quarters. Someone dropped a pen and several people jumped. A man hiccuped then glanced around embarrassed when the high-pitched sound echoed harshly off of the surrounding walls.

Finally, the room was asked to rise as the judge then the jury entered, shoes squeaking and clothing shuffling. When everyone was seated once more the foreman was asked to stand at the platform in front of the jurors’ box.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?” the judge asked, her voice and posture fatigued. The case had been emotionally trying for every individual involved. Not only were the details of Thomas O’Bryan’s murder especially heartless and brutal, but the case had a substantial media following from the beginning. Anyone recognizable involved with the trial had been forced to deal with prying news anchors and cameras almost constantly.

“We have, your honor,” the foreman responded, her voice shaking somewhat.

“We will start with Lacey Adams.” The judge proceeded to list charges, including assault and kidnapping, both of which Lacey was found guilty. But what everyone wanted to hear was the last charge: “On the charge of first-degree murder, how do you find?”

“Guilty.”

Gasps and cries reverberated from both sides of the courtroom, some in relief and others in surprise, but the sisters showed no reaction.

“And now for Whitney Adams. On the sole charge of aiding and abetting to first-degree murder, how do you find the defendant?”

“Guilty, your honor.”

More murmurings filled the room, but still the sisters remained completely placid and silent as they were handcuffed and led away. They would be returned to their separate cells to await sentencing.

An hour later and after Nathan talked to the O’Bryan’s and the press, Sara finally caught up with him.

“Hey, congratulations!”

He smiled in thanks, but didn’t appear as happy as he should.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s just the sentencing. Lacey should be locked up for good, but I’ve already heard talk about Whitney’s charge most likely being reduced to manslaughter.”

“They can’t do that!” Sara protested.

“Unfortunately, they can. She’s younger and more prone to manipulation. They’re definitely _not_ giving her life. We’re lucky if she gets ten years before she’s free again.”

* * *

_Present_

Sitting at his bedside, Sara frowned when Greg’s eyes slammed shut tightly. He cringed as if in pain, then he squeezed her hand with such strength that she thought he might break it. She hissed softly but didn’t pull it from his grasp, instead leaning closer and whispering his name.

He nodded once to acknowledge her but didn’t otherwise respond.

“Greg,” she prodded gently. “What is it?”

This time he shook his head. He appeared to be deeply focused on something, and Sara let him have a minute. She tolerated the discomfort in her own hand because she knew Greg wasn’t aware of how strongly he gripped it. His arm was shaking from the effort and his jaw flexed as he respired heavily through his mouth. The news she just delivered—that Whitney Adams hadn’t been located—was probably the last thing he wanted to hear, and in hindsight her most recent question seemed foolish.

After a few minutes, her hand began to go numb and so she leaned even nearer, keeping her tone light. “I’m here for you, but if you’d like to do more of this hand-holding thing I have to give you fair warning that mine’s about to fall off.”

Greg’s eyes popped open again and were filled with confusion for a moment before he realized what she meant. He promptly relaxed his grip and she drew back her hand, rubbing it. “Sara, I-I’m so, so sorry, are you—”

She interrupted him, smiling assuredly. “I’m good. What’s wrong, are you in pain? Do you want me to get a nurse?”

“No, don’t.” He shifted again, obviously finding it difficult to get comfortable. It was impossible to find a position in which he wasn’t laying on bruises, cuts, and sore muscles.

Sara decided not to drag an explanation out of him. Some silence passed, and Greg looked like he could barely keep his eyes open. She expected him to fall asleep soon, but he was battling it. She hoped that she could at least give him something else to think about by changing the subject.

“So, uh, everybody at the lab says hello. They wanted to come and visit today but didn’t want to crowd you right after your procedure.”

He smiled, but the smile didn’t extend beyond the corner of his mouth and it swiftly faded. He looked thoughtful. “I know…I know I need to give my statement. How am I supposed to do that when I don’t even know what day it is?”

“It’s alright, Greg. You’ve been through a lot, and nobody is expecting you to recite the entire experience in one sitting. Besides, you still have a few days to let your voice heal before he asks for your story.”

Greg attempted to clear his throat but this proved a mistake as he began to cough. Sara reached for the call button, but he shook his head as he held his side gingerly.

“Your doctor said you shouldn’t be using your voice too much. He’s going to kick me out if he sees what a bad influence I am.”

He took a few more shallow breaths before settling back into the pillows. “Oh, god,” he groaned suddenly after more silence.

“What?”

“My parents.”

“Don’t worry about that. They know that you’ve been found. They’re flying in as soon as they can.”

“No,” Greg shook his head again, grimacing. “How much do they know?”

Sara sighed, somewhat puzzled and wishing Greg would allow himself to rest instead of worrying about everyone but him. She recalled Grissom mentioning that Greg didn’t want his parents contacted after he was almost beat to death in that alley, but that was six years ago. He barely talked about his family, especially his parents, but surely by now they would know he was no longer working in the lab? She also felt another pang of guilt; she’d been a lousy friend recently. Of course he wouldn’t talk about his personal life when no one was listening. “I’m not sure exactly what they were told. Nick was the one that talked to them. I’m sure they at least know that you were missing and then found, and that you’re in the hospital. Dr. Holland asked me to give them his cell number.”

Greg frowned, “Did you?”

“Well no, not yet. This all just happened. I was going to call them after I checked on you.”

“Please, don’t.”

“Greg, I think they would—”

“I’m begging you. I-I can’t have them learn about what happened, about my uh, injuries…from anyone other than me. My dad, maybe, but not…” he trailed off. After a moment he tried to continue, but coughed some more.

Sara wanted to argue, but as she took in the sight of Greg battling to both breathe normally and stay conscious, likely in immense pain, she quickly lost any resolve. “Okay. I’ll make sure they don’t get any details until they talk to you.” She sat at the edge of the chair and reached to stroke his tousled hair, noting his grateful glance to her before his eyes closed. Apparently placated by her words and her touch, he fell asleep almost instantly.

It suddenly became almost frightening to listen to Greg sleep, breathing without the ventilator. The initial pride she had felt in him was still there, but his breaths were now raspy and irregular and Sara found herself worrying: _If Greg stops breathing, what will keep him alive?_

She quickly dismissed that thought, knowing it was a bit histrionic. Greg was still in serious condition, but nothing like a week ago. His heart pumped strongly, he could talk, and She trusted Dr. Holland’s judgment that he would do fine off the ventilator. Besides, even if Greg _did_ have an emergency, he was hooked up to numerous machines that would set off alarms at the nurses’ station, and within seconds staff would arrive.

She stayed with him for another half-hour before stepping outside of the room and nodding a greeting at the bored-looking guard posted there. She made a stop at the nurses’ station to leave a note for Dr. Holland, who was on a lunch break. Sara didn’t leave too many details, but the message included Greg’s parent’s number, along with the request of ‘ _no details—see Greg with questions_ ’. Even if he still insisted on delivering the specifics himself, Greg’s parents still deserved to hear from his doctor that he was on the mend.

Next, Sara stepped outside into the beaming Vegas sun and made the call she was dreading: to her ex, and the prosecutor on the old Adams case, Nathan Phelps. He sounded glad to hear from her, but strangely unaffected when she briefed him on the developments with Whitney Adams since her release from prison.

When she finished explaining what had happened and the reason behind her call, he was silent for a moment, then: “ _I know. I saw the news out of Vegas, and I’ve kind of been keeping tabs on her…_ ”

“Wait, what?” Sara hoped she had misheard him.

“ _The family hired me back after—Sara, hold on a second will you please?_ ”

“Uh, sure.” She listened to a short, muffled conversation, then some shuffling about as if Nathan was moving to a different location and closing a door behind him. When he spoke again his voice was hushed.

“ _Mr. O’Bryan called me shortly after the sentencing. He wanted to know how we could avoid that her release, or at least get her back in right away. I looked into things a bit, and let him know that she’d met all of the terms of her release, and—_ ”

“Whoa, whoa. Slow down. Is that why you moved to New York?”

“ _Yes. The family paid for my relocation._ ”

“How generous. I thought the O’Bryan’s were satisfied with the jury’s verdict?”

“ _They were, publicly. And Mr. O’Bryan went along with it for Mrs. because she wanted to move on, forgive and forget. But as the days passed he just couldn’t take the thought of one of his son’s murderers walking free._ ”

Sara felt more than a hint of anger stirring inside of her. “What did you already know?”

“ _What do you mean?_ ”

“You said you’ve been ‘keeping tabs on her’. How closely?”

“ _Watching her wasn’t a fulltime gig. I checked in on her every couple of weeks, and I was monitoring her credit and bank transactions. I did know that she had purchased a warehouse in Nevada._ ”

She balked. “So, you had to know that she was using an alias.”

“ _Yes, but—_ "

“What didn’t you find suspicious about an ex-con using a fake name to purchase an abandoned warehouse in the middle of the desert?”

“ _Adams relocated back to New York when she got out—with permission from her legal team. I thought she was still living in New York, until I saw the news from Vegas. Lots of people buy abandoned buildings renovate, rent out and make a profit. And her name…Maybe she changed it to escape the stigma of the trial. She wouldn’t be the first criminal to do that._ ” Nathan Phelps’s voice was gradually growing less hushed as he struggled to explain himself.

Not even attempting to keep the anger out of her own voice anymore, Sara laughed derisively. “There’s a process to legally change a person’s name, Nathan. I wouldn’t have expected you to just let that go. Stigma or no stigma, buying a property under a fake name is still a crime, and that should have been the end of it.”

“ _A crime that would put her back in jail for, what? A few more years at best, with her record?_ ”

“You were waiting on her to do something like this so that you could put her away for good. Except you wouldn’t have even noticed, because you weren’t all that good at ‘keeping tabs on her’. You don’t happen to know where she is now?”

“ _From the sounds of it? Dead. Hell, I didn’t even know she was_ in _Vegas, Sara, I swear. I’m sorry about your coworker, but sometimes you have to make—_ ”

“I’ve gotta go. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from Captain Brass soon about this.” Sara tapped the button to terminate the call and fought the urge to throw her new phone against the side of the hospital.

She couldn’t believe it. All of this could have been avoided if Phelps had simply handled his information about Whitney Adams appropriately. She didn’t know how she could have misjudged him so seriously. She made one more call to update D.B. about Phelps, then returned to Greg’s room to find him sleeping fitfully, snoring lightly in between coughs that sometimes woke him but usually didn’t. Sara spent the rest of the day there, watching over him and counting his breaths while pretending to read a book.

* * *

_One week later_

“Hey Sanders, how are you feeling?” Captain James Brass greeted as he and Nick entered Greg’s room. It wasn’t the first time either had visited, but the last time Brass was there Greg had still been unable to talk. This time, Greg was wide awake and eager to get his statement out of the way.

The hospital bed was raised so that Greg could sit up without too much effort, which was a relief because his first physical therapy session had been earlier the same day. He was sore and exhausted even after the two-hour nap he’d taken.

Within the past week, Greg developed pneumonia as Dr. Holland had predicted, and this complication further delayed both his recovery and his statement. The infection coupled with his ongoing fever and figuratively knocked him on his ass. At this point it still wasn’t completely resolved, but his voice was much better and they couldn’t put the statement off any longer. The physical search for Whitney Adams had been called off. Even Brass’s last-ditch effort of flying in a group of ten cadaver dogs and their handlers resulted in nothing. In the absence of a body, Greg’s information could prove crucial to wrapping up the case.

As usual Sara spent every second that she could with him at the hospital. She’d patted his back lightly through every seemingly endless coughing fit and comforted him through the burning in his ribs at every inevitable movement. She talked him through each panicked minute that he felt he couldn’t breathe, even the time two days into the pneumonia took hold that everyone feared Greg may need to go back on the respirator. He’d been unable to breathe normally; every time that he took a breath deep enough to satisfy his lungs, it was interrupted by coughing and turned into a terrifying cycle that left him exhausted and helpless…

(flashback)

_“We have to get him back on the ventilator.”_

_“There has to be another way.”_

_“Right now he has an SpO2, or blood hemoglobin oxygen saturation, of eighty-four percent. He needs to be much closer to one hundred. If we could convince him to wear the face mask, it would supply him with a lot more oxygen than the nasal cannulas.”_

_“Can I try?”_

_Dr. Holland glanced nervously at his patient from just outside the door where he stood with Sara. “Five minutes, then I’m sedating and intubating him. I’m sorry.”_

_The doctor stayed in the doorway watching as Sara approached the bed slowly, mask in hand behind her back. She couldn’t help feeling that she was betraying Greg. He was laid out on his left side, curled around himself and shivering, gasping, sweating._

_“Greg, I’m so sorry that you’re going through this.”_

_He looked to her almost pleading, eyes shimmering with tears that he stubbornly refused to let fall._

_She pointed to the SpO2 readout on one of the machines. It still sat at 84%. “See this number, Greg? Doc says it needs to be higher, and it’s not going to get there with the nasal tubes alone.”_

_After saying this, Sara slowly pulled the oxygen mask to her front, letting Greg register what it was. His eyes widened and he glanced between it and her. Sara inched closer._

_“Do you trust me?”_

_Another coughing fit shook his body. It took him several minutes to recover but through wheezes and shudders he managed to nod his head._

_“Do you want to put it on yourself?”_

_“N-No. You.” His eyes shut, and Sara felt panic nearly envelope her as she took in how much he was struggling. Her mind was tossed back into that room, that dungeon, as she tried to convince Greg to breathe, to stay alive. In all honesty she didn’t want to be the one to put the mask on him. She worried that he would see her as Whitney Adams, forcing him to breathe carbon dioxide through a mask that he couldn’t avoid._

_She fully expected Greg to freak when the mask touched his face, but he only twitched slightly. She tossed aside the tubes that had been going to his nostrils and positioned the elastic strap behind his head carefully, turning the motion into a calming stroke through his hair. After a quick look to Dr. Holland, Sara continued to lightly stroke Greg’s hair, forehead, and cheeks and murmured comforting words into his ear. She was now leaning over him and blocked his view of the doctor hurrying in and connecting the mask to oxygen hosing._

_Greg startled slightly again when he felt the slow trickle cool of air into the mask, but relaxed when he could still breathe and Sara resumed whispering to him. She didn’t budge from her position even when her back began to ache; Sara soothed him for the next several hours as his Sp02 climbed to a much healthier number and Greg finally slept._

(back to present)

Sara had a mandatory meeting with Ecklie the morning of Greg’s statement, and as much as Greg needed her support, he wouldn’t have asked her to be present even if she was able. The thought of talking about the events of that week with Sara listening was for some reason more frightening than any other person doing the same. He figured he would have to tell her eventually. Besides, given the nature of her meeting, he wouldn’t have switched places with her either. She’d already attended two of her four counseling sessions required by the department after the Adams incident, and Ecklie insisted on checking in with her to make sure she was taking it all seriously. Fortunately, D.B. would be there as well, and would surely help protect Sara…although, knowing the Wrath of Sara, Ecklie might need that protection more.

It was recommended that Greg have one additional ally present, however, so when Nick offered himself up Greg readily accepted. He didn’t want _any_ of his coworkers to hear all of the gruesome details, but if he had to pick Nick was a good friend to have on his side.

Brass pulled a chair to Greg’s bedside and took a seat. Normally he preferred to stand, but didn’t want to make the poor guy any more anxious than necessary. He set a small tape recorder next to them and press ‘record’. “So, should we start at the beginning? Do you remember anything about going to the tavern the morning that you were taken?”

Greg took a deep, shaky breath and caught himself wishing that Sara was at his side after all.

“I know this is tough, Greg. If there’s...” Nick, who had taken a seat as well, began.

But there was nothing that Nick or anyone could do to make any of this easier, so Greg simply started his story. “I remember being outside of the tavern. I called Sara to see if she wanted to come with me, I left her a voicemail, then…I—I went inside. It’s on the surveillance, right?”

The captain nodded. “We have you entering and exiting, but no working cameras caught the ‘in-between’ part. Do you remember anything about the bar? What you did inside, who you saw or met?”

“There are bits and pieces. I remember talking to Am—Whitney, because I recognized her later. It wasn’t my first time there, and I already knew William Harris. I think I drank some beer, but I never had meant to stay long if Sara didn’t show. I don’t remember any specifics about what we talked about while we were there, but I do remember feeling a lot drunker than I should have. Then nothing.”

“Okay. What’s the next thing you _do_ remember?”

“Waking up, alone in a room tied to a wooden chair. My legs were tied with rope to the chair legs and my wrists together behind the back. I had a huge headache, and I was nauseous. I tried to figure out the smartest way to get out of there, but I couldn’t think straight.” Greg paused and chewed his lower lip for a moment. It was obvious he was picturing himself back there. “It smelled _awful_. I can almost still...There was excrement, urine in the buckets already. Blood and other things on every surface. Who else did they do this to?”

Brass frowned. “We don’t have solid information on that, yet. All of the other samples came back to unknown males.”

Nick tried to veer the conversation away from the ‘ _other_ ’ in that sentence, because it angered him to think of the samples Greg himself was forced to contribute. “What happened next?”

“Um,” Greg cleared his throat, wincing. “The chair seemed kind of flimsy. I figured if I could tip it, it might break. I managed to rock far enough to knock it over, but it didn’t break. I did hit my head, though. Next thing I knew I heard voices; I don’t remember their conversation though. Harris kicked me in the stomach, and Whitney had him pull my chair upright. She told me to call her Amber, but it was clear that it wasn’t her real name. I, uh, I don’t remember everything that she said but she did bring Sara’s name up, said she’d been watching her. She also mentioned that if she killed me it would be an accident.”

He paused again to catch his breath. In fact, Greg did remember his conversations with his captors; at least, most of them, but he left out some of the details that he didn’t think would pertain to the case. He did recall his doctor mentioning that he had been drugged. “She poked me in the arm with something, and I passed out again. It was a syringe, wasn’t it?”

Nick nodded.

“Whitney was on her own when I woke up. That was when—" Greg made a vertical motion with his fingers over the deep cut on his neck, which still had a lot of healing to do. The flesh surrounding it was bright red with infection, and any movement pulled at it and triggered a sharp pain.

“Did she give any indication of _why_ she cut you? Or did it seem completely random?” Brass inquired.

“I think I talked back to her or something. Made some smart-ass comment. It uh, it bled a lot. I thought I was a goner, although as time went on and I didn’t bleed out I realized she must not have hit any big vessels.”

Nick grimaced, remembering something he’d heard from Dr. Holland: _Just an eighth of an inch in either direction and the knife would have lacerated either the jugular vein or the carotid artery._

“I don’t know how long I was passed out that time, but when she came in next, she talked. She talked about her family, about abuse that she endured, but I still couldn’t remember who she really was. Later, she mentioned Harris stopping at LVPD. I thought that must have meant he was questioned, and I got my hopes up that you guys were on the right track. And you were.”

“Just not fast enough,” Nick muttered under his breath.

“Nick,” Brass warned quietly.

“I’m sorry, man, I just can’t help but be pissed that we didn’t work faster, find you sooner.”

“I don’t blame you guys, Nick. There was barely any evidence to follow,” Greg shrugged.

As if it was no big deal.

“Please go on, Greg,” the captain prompted after a sideways glance at Nick, who sighed but shut his mouth.

“She finally gave me enough hints, and I remembered the case from ten years ago. She knew that I worked DNA on it, and that because Sara and I were both involved, _we_ were equally responsible for taking her sister from her. I asked why she took so long to make a move after being released from jail, and she said it took her time to plan, that there were setbacks.” Greg stopped here. This had been when she choked him with the rope and talked about the pleasure it gave her. He knew this would likely all be important information, but he hated discussing it. He chanced a quick glance at his friends, knowing he was flushing slightly. They remained silent and gave him no out, so he went on.

“Whitney had a rope. She stood behind me and put it around my neck. As she pulled tighter, she talked about, uh…how she likes to control things, especially someone’s breathing. She’s either done her research or she’s had some medical training. Has she had medical training?”

“Not that we’re aware of,” Brass responded after exchanging a glance with Nick.

Nick then leaned forward. “What makes you say that, Greg?”

“She knew her human physiology, and the body’s response to different types of anesthetics, disassociates, and…to carbon dioxide. I guess it wasn’t anything she couldn’t have picked up from textbooks, though. But she had access to controlled drugs...What was it they found in my system?”

Brass shrugged a shoulder, but Nick remembered. “Trace amounts of midazolam and meperidine. But Whitney could have acquired them on the streets, or maybe Harris had a source.”

Greg nodded. Perhaps it was the way that she explained her actions and his _re_ actions in such a cold way, using the correct anatomical terms and descriptions that made him believe she had medical training. However, he had also known psychopaths to behave in that fashion. “Anyways, I passed out, and next thing I knew Harris was cutting my arms and legs loose. I couldn’t support myself, so I fell forward and landed on my shoulder.” He left out the talking scorpion. He acknowledged was his mind’s way of dealing with the torture and stress so didn’t feel it was pertinent to finding Whitney. It was also a bit embarrassing.

Nick and Brass both frowned. They’d had a chance to review Greg’s injury list, unfortunately. “That must have been when you dislocated it.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t feel it, not at first. Harris pushed me against the buckets, made me…uh, use the bathroom, then take off my shirt and pants. I tried to argue but he punched me in my back and threatened to ‘help’ me. I had a feeling he was acting on Whitney’s orders, but I also think he…he liked his job.” Greg had rushed through this part. He stared at the floor intently and blushed. He hurried on, “He attached me to one of the walls, this time with a chain around my throat and a padlock. I asked for some water, but he said ‘that’s Amber’s decision’, and left me alone.”

Nick was flushed also, but in anger rather than humiliation. “For how long?”

“I think it was at least a day. It was hard to keep track of time…”

“Greg,” Brass interjected, curiosity overwhelming his ability to let Greg tell the story at his own pace. “Your doctor said that your shoulder was put back into place at some point. Did Adams and Harris do that when they came back?”

“What? Why would they—" The young investigator shot him a confused look. “No, I did that.”

Nick and Brass just stared at Greg, baffled.

“I couldn’t use it the way it was.” Greg avoided meeting Nick’s eyes at all costs now. After all, it had been _his_ voice that talked him through the process, and it was a conversation the two shared years ago. He wondered if Nick remembered. “It’s my dominant arm. At least if it was in place, I could defend myself better. Except it didn’t help very much. I still couldn’t fight back. When they showed up next, they put me in a different room, in a bathtub full of cold water. Harris held me under, and Whitney watched with this look…Harris let me up, but not for long before dunking me back under, and just kept doing that over and over. I thought I was going to die, again. I think I managed to bite his hand—it was on my face—and that’s when he let up and I managed to drag myself out of the tub. He was angry, kicked me in the side a couple of times, and Whitney had him tie me back up. Then they left me again.”

Greg took a break from talking to sip some water from a cup at his bedside. His left arm was feeling stronger, but that didn’t take away from the fact that his other three limbs were essentially useless until he could have surgery done on them. His throat hurt a lot, especially now that he’d talked more than he had in weeks, and his voice was beginning to grow hoarser.

As Nick watched Greg cautiously, he grew concerned that they might not be able to make it through the entire statement in one sitting. He had thought, _hoped_ , that the man wouldn’t remember much of his experience, but that seemed to not be the case. As grateful as he was for the amount of information that Greg was giving Brass, telling it was obviously wearing him out. And if Nick was being honest with himself, _hearing_ it was wearing _him_ out.

His mind inevitably drifted to that glass coffin. The hours upon hours he spent in that claustrophobic nightmare; alone and hot and panicking and suffocating and trying to _survive_. There’s a reason that isolation is used as torture. From the sounds of it, Greg spent days in isolation, interrupted only by brief, torturous visits by his captors. Although very different, their experiences shared some similar elements, only Greg’s casket was slightly larger and his suffocation had not due to the lack of oxygen in his environment but at the hands of Whitney Adams. Nick hoped that meant he could help coach Greg through his recovery.

Nick stood up abruptly. “That’ll be it for today.”

Both Greg and Brass looked to him, surprised.

“Nick, we need to do this sooner rather than later,” Brass reminded him.

“I know that, but we’ll do the rest tomorrow.”

“I’m okay, I want to finish this,” Greg piped in.

“And we’ll finish this tomorrow.” Nick was resolute, and somehow managed to get both the police captain and Greg to back down.

“Fine.” Brass stood and straightened his jacket. “Thank you, Greg. I’ll be back in the morning.”

After the older man left, closing the door behind him, Greg glared at Nick. “Why did you do that?”

“Because you need a break. You’re gonna lose your voice if you keep going, Greg. So for the rest of the day, we’re going to watch some dumb soap operas, eat some _real_ food that I’ll have Sara bring to us after her meeting, and then you’re going to get some rest and you’ll _finish this_ tomorrow morning.”

Nick would never admit that it was primarily _he_ that needed a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 😁


	22. Ready (But Not That Ready)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, you! Yes, you! Thanks for reading! This would have been a HUGE chapter, so I decided to post it as two chapters but post them at the same time. Enjoy!

Sara’s meeting with Ecklie and Russell went as well as could be expected, given the circumstances. Although she still wasn’t Ecklie’s biggest fan, he had softened with time. He now seemed almost sympathetic to her and Greg’s ordeal, and kept the conversation professional and short. She would be allowed to officially return to work soon, pending Greg’s statement and how things turned out with Whitney Adams. After reaching her car she noticed that Nick had called and left a brief voicemail, asking her to bring ‘real’ food to the hospital for he and Greg when her meeting ended.

So, carrying a bag of take-out Sara made the usual trek through the hospital and encountered Nick pacing just outside of Greg’s room. When he saw her he hurried over, looking relieved.

“What’s wrong?” Sara asked immediately, fearing the worst as always. She assumed Nick would have mentioned on the phone if something had happened during Greg’s statement, but his tone on the voicemail and now his motions had a very anxious air about them.

“I don’t know…The things that happened to him. I know I have to hold myself together for Greg, but I’m really struggling. I’m so pissed at Adams and Harris, and we’re only partly done with this.” Nick spoke softly when he responded. Greg was on the other side of the door and he didn’t want him to overhear, even though Greg was smart enough to know they _would_ talk about him.

Sara frowned as his words sunk in. She struggled to keep herself from asking for specifics about Greg’s stories. “You guys didn’t get through the whole thing today? He kept saying that he was looking forward to being done with his statement. What happened?”

Nick glanced at the door, looking somewhat ashamed now. “That was my decision. He recites everything like lines he was forced to memorize for a school play, but with very little emotion. It’s disturbing, honestly. I had no idea he would remember this much, and I still think he’s holding back. I don’t think the way he’s dealing is healthy.”

Part of Sara disagreed with Nick; he shouldn’t have made the decision for Greg to put the statement on hold, but she was also secretly and selfishly grateful that he had. She probably would have done the same thing. “How can any of us critique Greg for the way that he’s dealing with this? He’s going to be fine, Nick. We’re less than two weeks out from finding him; it’s still so, so early. How is he right now?”

“He was a bit perturbed with me at first, but seems fine. I’m going to grab some coffee and I have a few calls to make.” Nick stalked off.

Sara entered Greg’s room. The television was on, but Greg’s gaze was focused somewhere past the soap opera that was playing and the set itself. “So, who chose the viewing experience?”

His eyes snapped to her as if startled but once he saw her, he smirked and used the remote to switch the T.V. off. “Nick’s. He said it’s so terrible that it’s entertaining, but I think that’s an excuse because he seemed really into it.”

Sara laughed as she took the chair closest to the bed. “You didn’t change the channel when he left the room.”

“Busted.”

A tray was already set up over Greg’s lap so she placed his meal there. So far, he had meekly and courteously accepted the assistance given by his friends, but everyone could sense some understandable tension and silent frustration on Greg’s part over his own current state of helplessness. He looked away as she casually but efficiently unwrapped and placed items within reach to facilitate eating with one hand.

After thanking her, he dug in. “Oh, you have no idea how much I’ve missed this place,” he said between bites, indicating the carry-out bag with a small nod of his head.

She’d gotten him a large amount of food, knowing that he would likely have leftovers, but she wanted him to have options. Although, she’d stuck to blander foods that would be gentler on his stomach and digestive tract, since his body was still struggling to adjust from the week he’d spent without any nutrition at all. He ate hurriedly at first but slowed down rather quickly, then sat back with a contented sigh and thanked her again.

“You’re welcome,” Sara beamed at him. She packed up his leftovers, put them aside, and took care of the trash before returning to her seat. A few minutes of silence passed until she spoke again. “Greg, you know that Nick was just trying to—”

“Parent me until my real parents get into town?” Greg grinned humorlessly. “I know, I know, and he’s right. My throat needed a break and _I_ needed a break. But I really, _really_ wanted to get it over with in one sitting.”

She nodded sympathetically. His grin had vanished too quickly, and he seemed to be deep in thought as he stared straight ahead at one of the curtains. She leaned back and studied him carefully. They shared a few more minutes of amicable silence.

Unexpectedly, Greg broke the quiet this time. “I keep having these random memories, thoughts, or maybe hallucinations. It doesn’t matter if I’m awake or asleep. There are some images and words that I’m trying to sort but it’s like using some kind of alien filing system. I think they’ll go away with time, but some of them…some of them, I don’t want to go away. I’m pretty sure I know what _wasn’t_ real in that warehouse—and trust me, there was a _lot_ that wasn’t real.”

Greg paused to try to clear his throat, which caused him to cough. It took him some time to regain his breath, during which Sara watched protectively, ready to call for a doctor if needed.

His words weren’t making much sense to her, but he was allowing her a small glimpse into his mind and she was grateful for that. She knew that it would take him a long time to completely open up about what happened, but she appreciated each small bit he trusted her with.

“I remember when you were there with me, before you escaped.”

Sara leaned in once more and added softly, “You were so badly hurt. I didn’t expect you to remember much from that.”

“I thought it was a dream, but now I’m not so sure. Sara…what you said and what you did kept me going. I’ll never forget that, or be able to repay you. I understand why you did it, why you said what I needed to hear.”

He remembered what she’d confessed to him when she thought he couldn’t hear. He remembered the kiss.

Did he really think she’d have lied to him? She had been holding his hand almost around the clock since he’d been found. Did he believe this was her _humoring_ him? “Please, don’t think like that. Listen to me, everything that I said and did, I meant. The fact that it kept you going is a bonus.” She carefully lifted his hand and kissed the back of it, then held it close as she continued. “No matter what, I’ll be here for you. I hope that someday we might be more than friends, but I understand if I…lost my chance, or something.”

He gave her a wry, sidelong glance. “You had _tons_ of chances.”

Sara felt her heart nearly crumble. He really had given her countless opportunities. It was just never the right time for them, and perhaps it never would be. Tears filled her eyes and she nodded in understanding. “I know.”

“But it’s not like me to give up so easily,” he added after a long moment.

Sara smiled, “It’s really not.”

Their hands still clasped together, Greg used that connection to pull her to him; not that she resisted. Sara was fully off her chair now, crouched over the bed and their heads were only inches apart. Still, he looked straight ahead, breathing heavily either from emotion or pain.

This close, Sara could see in vivid detail the framework of the marks on his skin. Although most bruises had faded to a mottled mixture of olive green and pale yellow, and the cuts were well on their way to mended, she could still make out every single blemish. It was as if the image of Greg at his worst had forever shrouded her view of him, and she hated Whitney and Harris for that.

Greg would never rid himself of the scars, both physical and emotional, and Sara would always have her memories of seeing him like that. It had been tough after the laboratory explosion and the gang beating, but this time was different somehow. Sara felt responsible. She closed her eyes and tried to push the negative thoughts away for now. He was healing, and so was she. As she had reminded Nick only minutes ago, the incident was still very fresh in all of their minds, and recovery wasn’t an overnight process.

Sara pressed her lips briefly to Greg’s shoulder before rested her chin there lightly. She took a deep breath as she sensed him slowly relax. How the guy managed to smell so damn good after occupying a hospital for so long, Sara had no idea, and she was slightly ashamed when the thought came into her head. It wasn’t a soap or cologne, but the smell was inherently _Greg_ and it calmed her greatly. Feelings began to stir in her that she hadn’t experienced in a long time.

“But…why would you want me now? She broke me.”

The words were barely audible, and unsure if she’d heard him correctly, Sara opened her eyes again and studied him closely. “Even if she did...Broken isn’t the same as irreparable, Greg. We’ve all been broken in one way or another. All that matters is what you plan on doing with the pieces that are leftover. You need to know that you’re not alone in picking those pieces back up, either.”

He finally looked to her, and his expression was appreciative. Their foreheads bumped lightly together, and Greg breathed shakily, deeply. She noticed the moisture on his cheeks and quickly pulled herself up next to him on the narrow bed, enclosing her arms around him. This was the position Nick found them in, dozing off, when he returned to the room. He smirked and snagged some of Greg’s leftovers before heading outside to eat in the Vegas sun.

* * *

The next morning, Nick and Brass showed up at the same time as last. Although Sara was available today, they all agreed that for consistency’s sake since Nick was present for the first half of the statement, he should be there for the rest.

Greg’s throat was still strained from the amount of talking he did the day before, but he didn’t mention that fact. He was ready to continue where he left off, and wasted no time.

“After all of that, they changed how I was tied. The chain was still around my neck but they made me stand and hooked it up higher. I was so tired, but if I didn’t stand on my own I’d hang myself. They’d left my hands untied and Whitney was uh, touching me, my neck, and I thought she was going to hurt me, so I pushed her. She had Harris handcuff my wrists and put a piece of duct tape over my mouth. I remember her cutting my chest and stomach before I passed out…and I didn’t die, so she must have lowered me to the ground again.”

“Did Whitney use the same knife then as when she cut your neck?” Brass asked.

“I think so? I don’t remember seeing one, just feeling it when she cut my neck.”

“What did it look like when you did see it?”

“I don’t know, some sort of small kitchen knife?” Greg looked a bit uneasy but tried to hide it behind a slight upturn of his lips. “Why are you so interested in the knife?”

Brass and Nick glanced at each other, but Nick was the one who answered his question, carefully. “We think that the knife she used on you—the paring knife that we found at the accident scene—was the same weapon used by the sisters on Thomas O’Bryan.”

“Oh.” He looked away, suddenly going pale.

“Are you okay?”

“I mean, it’s…disturbing. She was attached to that thing, carried it all the time. Sometimes I would wake up and there were more cuts, but I had no idea how I got them. If I don’t remember something like that, something so painful—" He stopped there. Greg didn’t need to finish his sentence because the implication was clear: _What else don’t I remember?_

Nick heard the unspoken question and veered away from that train of thought. “Well, for now let’s focus on what you do remember, alright?”

“Yeah.” Greg took a deep breath and continued. “When I came to, she was there again with her knife, but I was chained up on the ground instead of the higher hook. My arms were still cuffed, and she looked like she wanted to use that knife again. I tried to get her to talk about herself because I wanted to distract her, and she _loved_ to talk about herself.”

“Did it work?” Brass spoke hopefully. “Did she tell you anything useful?”

“Not really. I asked why she chose the name ‘Amber’, and she said it was a nice color. She also said ‘Whitney is no longer with us’, almost like Amber was a new person…her way of starting over.”

“Multiple personalities?” Brass asked skeptically.

“It doesn’t fit. I don’t think she’s crazy like _that_. I think she’s a psychopath, but she’s completely aware of her actions. When she told me that she loved the ‘games’ that she and her sister played with O’Bryan, she also said she never ran them and I believed her. But when the court system separated her and Lacey, she had to modify herself to be able to take on the world alone.”

“There’s changing to survive and then there’s what Whitney Adams did,” Nick said. “There’s a huge difference.”

“It was all she knew.”

Nick frowned, hoping that Greg was not feeling the need to defend Whitney’s actions. “That doesn’t make her any less guilty of O’Bryan’s death, or what she and Harris did to you.”

“I know.” Greg agreed verbally, but his expression was blank.

Brass didn’t give Nick a chance to elaborate further. “What happened next?”

He swallowed hard, mind racing through the events that followed. She’d threatened to take his senses one by one. “She used the chloroform on me again. Next thing I knew, she’s waking me up and offering me some ice cubes if I behav—if I did what she said. She said that I needed to be standing to meet my guest. I had no idea what she was talking about, but it sounded bad. This was also the first time I remember hearing mentioned how long I’d been there. Whitney said six days and I couldn’t believe it. Harris came in, they stood me up, hooked the chain higher again. I didn’t think I could stand on my own but then she mentioned ‘seeing Sara’ and my heart just dropped. They left, and I stood there, waiting. I stood for as long as I could but everything eventually went black and the next time that I was aware of anything, Sara was there.”

“Sara was very thorough with her telling of the events that happened while she was there,” Brass commented. “If you would like, she has already approved me to allow you to read over her typed statement so that you can elaborate if you have anything more.”

“She also told us about how she got away. What were you thinking, man?” Nick suddenly broke in, reprimanding Greg despite attempting to hold back. “You could have gotten yourself killed…” His voice faded out as he realized what he was saying.

Greg looked perplexed instead of insulted. “You even have to ask? It’s Sara. I’d do the same for any of you because you’re all family.”

“Do you need to take a walk, Nick?” Brass scowled at him.

“No,” Nick returned sharply.

Brass sighed as he turned back to the man in the hospital bed. “I can bring Sara’s statement for you to look over tomorrow. Where our timeline is now lacking, Greg, is in the events following Sara’s escape.”

“After she ran out, I listened and waited. Harris had gone after her, and while he was gone, Whitney gave me a cup of water.”

“Did she say why she gave you water after all that time?”

“It sounded like she wanted to keep me around for longer. I don’t know how she and Harris expected things to go with Sara, but I think they need more time for whatever they had planned. When Harris got back, they argued about Sara getting away, and that’s how I found out she managed to snag the cell phone on the way out and I was so damn proud. Harris kept complaining about his foot. I think something stung him, but I can’t…”

After another questioning glance between him and Brass, Nick spoke up again. “A scorpion. One that wasn’t supposed to be there.”

“A non-native species?”

“Yeah,” continued Nick carefully. “I forget what Grissom called it, but it’s deadlier than Vegas species. If someone is already immunocompromised, they’re more likely to have a severe reaction to the sting.”

Greg pondered that information for a moment. “And Harris was immunocompromised?”

“William Harris was a chronic alcoholic and smoker. His lungs and liver were ‘shit’—and that’s coming from David’s mouth. Besides that, he had an infected…uh, wound on his hand. It was probably about four to five days old.”

“From when I bit him.” Finally, Greg had something new with which to establish at least a vague timeline of that week. That meant that the bathtub incident occurred less than halfway through his experience, which seemed hard to believe. “What does this species look like?”

“Yellowish-tan, I think. Ugly little things if you ask me,” Nick replied. Then, after a pause: “Why? Did you see it?”

_Yes, and it talked. In fact, it had_ your _voice._ “I might have. Things are really fuzzy,” Greg said instead.

There it was again. The other men exchanged a significant look that concerned Greg.

If it was up to Nick, they wouldn’t bring it up. Not now, maybe not ever. But Brass was in charge of this interview, and despite knowing Greg for so long, his cop instincts honed in on irregularities in any interview, statement, or interrogation.

“You keep saying that, Greg, but then you explain things in great detail. Hey, there’s nothing wrong with that,” Brass held up both hands defensively when Greg’s eyes narrowed. “Honestly, I’m impressed with how much you remember. I’ve never spoken with a vict— _survivor_ that went through something similar and remembered so much.”

Greg shrugged a shoulder. “I’m a CSI and a chemist. It’s how my mind works, isn’t it?”

“Sure.” Brass stood and paced a bit. “I respect you, Greg, so I’ll just be frank with you: you seem to be _selectively_ forgetting certain details.”

Feeling criticized and confused even though under everything he knew Brass was right, Greg looked to Nick imploringly. “Seriously? I was beaten, choked, and cut, repeatedly. I tried to pay attention, take everything in so that _if_ I did make it out of there, I’d have information for you guys. Sorry I can’t remember every damn thing through the concussions and blood loss.”

Nick addressed Greg while simultaneously urging Brass back into his chair. “He doesn’t mean it like that and you know it. Look, Whitney Adams is most likely dead. But the fact of the matter is that we still haven’t found her, and if she _is_ still out there, she’s a danger to a lot of people. We just want every single detail that might help us.”

“I’m giving you everything I can that has any relevance to finding her.” Greg spoke slowly and carefully. “I just don’t see how some of these questions pertain to building a case against Whitney. Unless, there’s someone else you’re building a case against?”

“There are no charges against you,” Brass stated quickly. “I _have_ to pick apart your story. You know I do. What else did you hear Adams and Harris say?”

Still on guard, Greg nonetheless answered willingly. “Harris didn’t think that Sara would get anywhere on foot, but Whitney wanted to leave right away because she didn’t want to get caught. She said that she knew someone that could get them a new vehicle, but she never mentioned where the end of the road would be. Harris dragged me out to load me up into the van. I actually tried to talk him into turning against Whitney; I thought it was going to be my last chance. Sara wouldn’t know where to find me if they brought me away from the warehouse. Harris said that it was too late for him and that the authorities were already onto him. He did say that if he was in control of all this instead of Whitney, he wouldn’t have made me suffer for so long. He hit me with a bat he’d pulled from the van and knocked me out.”

Nick winced. They had finally reached the part of the story that everyone questioned the most. The team hoped that Greg could clear up some of the mystery surrounding the sedan’s crash, but so far it was not sounding hopeful. If Greg was knocked unconscious again, they wondered how much more he could be expected to remember.

Surprising them both once more, Greg went on without any prompting.


	23. The Wreck

_He awakens when he’s dragged from the van by a leg and dropped onto hot, unforgiving pavement. Coughing, he squints in an attempt to clear the fog obscuring his vision. He’s used to seeing things sideways by now. The tires of the van are behind two sets of shoes that move about in front of him, and he’s fairly certain that the soprano and baritone murmurings that he’s hearing are some sort of conversation._

_“Did you disable the safety release?”_

_“Of course I did.”_

_“Good. Get him in.”_

_Greg’s bad arm is grasped again and he can’t hold in the pained groan as he is hauled in the direction of a new vehicle: a low-profile, desert-aged sedan. Whitney is opening the trunk and Greg finds that he has some fight left in him after all. As Harris lifts him higher to deposit him into the trunk, Greg begins to claw, kick, and flail. He finally braces himself against the back of the car with his legs and right arm, but he’s only delaying the inevitable._

_And, annoying his captors. He freezes when sharp, cold steel presses against his throat. Harris is still holding him up by his arm, but Whitney has positioned herself behind him and has an arm over his shoulder and knife to his flesh. Greg’s breaths are shallow and erratic and he nearly sobs in frustration at the unfairness of all of this._

_“I’m trying to be pleasant to you. Do you want to be restrained? Blind-folded? Gagged?” Her voice is low, and she applies more pressure with the tip of the knife, smiling when her captive whimpers quietly and trembles under her touch. “So, will you be good?”_

_As much as Greg wants to avoid being shoved into the trunk, he wants to avoid being tied up again even more. He nods carefully and the edge of the knife scrapes against his stubble. As soon as Whitney pulls away from Greg, Harris follows up her threat with an elbow to his chin. The hit sends him sideways into the trunk, and after roughly tucking his legs in after him, Harris slams it shut._

_Both passenger and driver’s doors open then close and the radio blares up front as the vehicle’s engine roars to life. It reverses then takes off, and the motion of the car as it navigates over the rough terrain jolts Greg’s broken bones and bruised body._

_He doesn’t know how he avoids passing out from Harris’s latest hit, but he almost wishes that he_ had _. Everything hurts. His sole hope is Sara, but she no longer knows where to find him. He tries to concentrate, to use his training and his brain to figure a way out of here._

_Greg coughs and lets the metallic, bitter liquid that it brings up trickle onto the trunk lining. He is beginning to feel very claustrophobic as the barely seen walls surrounding him seem to press closer. He can’t straighten his legs or his arms; can’t even straighten his back or neck. The cramped space is hot and humid and the air is thick and stale. The heat of the day is trapped in this space. He hyperventilates, takes in air greedily but it isn’t easing his panic._

_After what feels like hours, he can’t stand it anymore. He isn’t getting enough air and his throat is closing tighter than ever. He can’t even think. Panting raggedly, Greg begins to pat blindly at the rear of the vehicle. He feels what he’s searching for—the emergency trunk release—but it’s been broken and rendered useless. So, opening the trunk itself and jumping out when, and if, the vehicle slows is not an option. He rests briefly but forces himself into action again when he feels his world begin to spin. He can’t lose consciousness again, not now._

_He grasps along the edge of the roof of the trunk and the back of the rear seats, nearly giving up before he finally locates the hanging strap. Harris may have broken the trunk release, but he forgot the strap that lowers the rear seats. He pulls it downward and the back seat releases with a loud_ thump _that he hopes went unnoticed by the vehicle’s other occupants. Greg pauses only momentarily, long enough to listen and hope that this one small bit of luck isn’t his last. Carefully pushing it forward only a couple of inches, Greg contorts himself in the tiny space so that his face is closer to the opening and desperately inhales the much cooler air of the cab._

_His mind clears slightly with the cleaner air, but the edges of his vision are still fuzzy and black spots dance in front of what he can see in the dim light filtering in from the front of the car. It’s speeding along what feels like a rarely-used, unpaved road. It occasionally slows but never completely comes to a stop. Harris and Whitney have paused in their bickering, and seem to be distracted enough with the loud radio to allow Greg to peak up front. He lowers the back of the seat a few more inches; just enough to take in the positions of his captors._

_Whitney is driving. Her hand rests on the middle console, and an inch or two from her fingers glimmers the knife. Merely the sight of the cool steel, free of its sheath and ready to utilize at a moment’s notice, sends chills down Greg’s spine. Harris sits in the passenger seat, and he doesn’t look good: his face is bright red and his skin drips with sweat. He appears to be asleep or passed out, which explains the lull in conversation. The scorpion’s poison is working its way throughout his bloodstream. This particular arachnid’s sting must be stronger than Greg imagined._

_If the large man is feeling as weak as he looks, Greg may finally have a slight advantage…or at least a level playing field._

_The vehicle begins to slow, and Greg hurriedly pulls back the seat again but is cautious not to latch it in place. After pausing briefly, the car veers right and proceeds onto a much smoother road._

_He delays another few minutes, during which he formulates a shaky plan. He huddles against the rear of the seat and focuses on quieting his nerves. His body—which minutes ago was ready to surrender—now functions on determination alone. Greg knows that if he doesn’t act soon, he may never get another chance. He also knows his plan is hazardous and that he may not be thinking logically. There are too many things that are could go wrong, but he decides he is willing to risk it if it means a chance at rescue and survival…and at seeing Sara again._

_He slowly lowers the back of the seat once more. Whitney is still facing forward, peering through the twilight at the road ahead, and Harris’s eyes are still closed, his head slumped to the side. The Beatles’ ‘_ I Want You (She’s So Heavy) _’ is blasting on the radio, and thankfully helps to covers any noise Greg makes as he drags himself from the trunk. Pain radiates throughout each muscle and every bone aches from the inside out. He bites his tongue to keep from crying out, drawing blood. He’s holding his breath and his heart is hammering against his sternum. If either captor happens to check behind them, or even glances into the rearview mirror, he will be discovered immediately._

_As soon as he is all the way into the backseat, feet on the floor of the car and positioned behind Harris, he makes his move. He snags the handle of the knife with his right hand and in the same motion brings it around the back of the seat near the door. He presses it firmly to Harris’s throat, who awakens but doesn’t move._

_“Pull the car over,” Greg growls at Whitney, just loudly enough to be heard over the music and the engine. He doesn’t mean to so ominous, but it’s how the words come out and he’s okay with it._

_Whitney looks over and realizes what has transpired while she has been zoning out, cruising and daydreaming about new games to play with her captive. A flicker of surprise crosses her face before she tucks it away behind a nonchalant smile. Her eyes return to the road ahead and she starts to move her hand._

_“Stop! Don’t move!” Greg shouts hoarsely, tightening his hold on Harris._

_“Whoa there, slugger.” She laughs at his jitteriness and slowly reaches to power off the radio. “I thought you were smarter than this, Greg.”_

_“I guess I’m not,” he admits shakily. Harris still isn’t budging under his arm and the knife, although if the larger man does try to move for any reason, he certainly could. Greg has a meager hold on him at best. He assumes that Harris isn’t moving because doing so would be tricky without getting cut._

_“It’s too bad that I couldn’t get through to you,” Whitney continues. “No matter what she says, Sara doesn’t care about you. Even if she makes it out of the desert, you think she’s going to waste her time trying to save you? Of course not. She’ll never look back. I bet she’s_ relieved _to be rid of you.”_

_“Shut up and stop the car!” Greg cries. The strong, commanding tone that he aims for is diminished in potency due to the shudders are rattling him._

_Whitney’s shoe presses down harder on the accelerator. The odometer is fast approaching eighty miles-per-hour, but she continues to talk; her casual tone suggesting they are simply on a leisurely car ride through the desert. “Sara’s not right for you, Greg. Only I can really make you feel_ alive _.”_

_“I said shut up!”_

_The engine strains and roars. The vehicle itself begins to shudder as the pedal is pressed even further._

_“Do you want to know the mistake you made? Well, the most recent one, anyway?”_

_“Pull over or I’ll kill him!”_

_“See, that’s it right there. You think that I actually care about Liam here.”_

_The accelerator touches the floor, then several events happen at once. Harris leans forward, and Greg loses his grip on him but knows the larger man had to have been cut in the process because his own hand is suddenly very warm and wet with red. A large bang resonates beneath the car as the front passenger side tire explodes. Whitney overcompensates for the sudden pull to the right by jerking the wheel to the left. The vehicle veers sharply, and a horrible screeching from the contact of steel on blacktop is heard. At this point, Whitney slams on the brakes to attempt to stop the slide, which only succeeds in causing the entire car to lean clockwise._

_It’s too late for Greg to buckle himself in, but Harris is still leaning forward so he does the only thing he can think to do: he lets the knife fall from his hand and hugs the back of the passenger seat with all his might._

_Shit shit shit shit shit_

_Their fate is sealed when the front tires meet the soft sand next to the road. Time continues in slow-motion as the vehicle flips several times before coming to rest on its roof a distance from the road, leaving the scent of burnt rubber and a billowing dust cloud of disturbed sand in its wake. The first flip sends jolts of agony throughout his entire body but especially his legs. Somehow, he continues to cling to the seat: his anchor. On the second flip, broken glass sprays across him and he tucks his face into his shoulder and tightly closes his eyes. The third flip brings a_ crack _from his right leg that Greg feels but also hears, and he finally loses his grip on both the seat and consciousness._

_But not for long. When Greg comes around, he decides that he must be dead. How else can he explain the clarity in his mind for the first time in days—maybe even weeks? He remembers everything, knows that he’s never been worse off, but he feels almost refreshed as if he just woke up from an eight-hour sleep and is about to sip on some Blue Hawaiian._

Ah, yes. If heaven exists, it will contain _all_ the Blue Hawaiian.

_Then, he groggily opens his eyes and immediately amends his initial presumption. If heaven involves dangling by one leg, crushed in between the rear and passenger seats of a crumpled, upside-down sedan, he’d rather be elsewhere._

_Greg is dangling far enough for the tops of his shoulders to just barely touch the roof of the car, and the back of his head rests awkwardly on the hard surface. It doesn’t surprise him that he can’t feel his right leg. After all, the forces pressing against it must be cutting off blood supply. What does surprise him is the fact that nothing hurts. Greg counts all his recent injuries and knows that he’s been knocked around quite a bit as the car flipped. He should be in agony. There is discomfort, yes, but that’s all it is._

That can’t be a good sign.

_There is a loud hissing sound, and Greg sees the carbon dioxide cannister laying by his head. He pushes it from him hastily and is thankful that it hasn’t exploded and that all of the windows are broken so the fumes can’t build up in the car. He looks around, assessing where the nearest danger is now, because doing so has become habit and necessity. Harris is nowhere in sight, but Whitney is rotated but somehow still held in the drivers’ seat by her safety belt. Her face and hair are coated in blood, which seems to be streaming from a head injury._

_She is staring blankly at him—_ through _him—eyes glazed and unfocused._

Dead. Good riddance.

_She blinks._

Damnit.

_As Whitney groggily takes in her surroundings, her gaze begins to clear slightly. Her eyes narrow._

_Greg grasps at the parts of the seats that are crushing his leg. He tries to pry them apart but only succeeds in intensifying the head rush he’s already experiencing from being upside down. He then braces his left foot against the passenger seat, grips his right knee, and pulls. Sometimes snaps, and a blinding pain erupts throughout the leg that he recently believed to be numb. He yells inarticulately in pain and frustration. Whitney is alive; this isn’t over yet, and he can’t move an inch to get away._

_Finally, she seems to really_ see _Greg, and her expression morphs from dazed and confused to livid and bloodthirsty._

_“You…asshole…” she mutters, and blindly reaches to her side to unbuckle her seatbelt. As soon as it is released, she topples to the roof of the sedan with a grunt._

_Greg accepts that he is in definite trouble when Whitney begins to drag herself toward the back of the car. She is reaching for him, and he starts to hyperventilate again. He changes tactics and grabs at the window frame of the rear window, only to find out that his right hand isn’t working right and his forearm has an angle that shouldn’t be there. Still, he grips the frame as tightly as possible and pulls. If he can free his leg, he can escape out the window and into the desert._

_He pulls with all of his strength and finally hears another crack as his knee dislodges from where it was trapped. His body falls and hits the roof hard. The wind is knocked out of him but still there is no pain._

_Greg doesn’t take the chance of checking on Whitney’s progress before he drags himself through the opening where the rear window once was. He’s halfway out when a hand grips his ankle. He kicks at her but she continues to climb onto him and hinder his progress._

_She is now on top of him, sharp knees pressing into his back, and he feels her arm snake around the front of his neck. She hooks her wrist with the crook of her opposite elbow and squeezes. He lets out a wheeze that is cut off when her hold tightens. Greg’s hands instantly halt in their quest to drag himself out of the car and instead grapple at Whitney’s arm._

_“You…you ruined everything,” she murmurs to him, and her lips brush against his ear. “Everything would have been perfect. I would have kept you forever, Greg. I was going to kill Sara, as well as every other person that testified against Lacey and me or tried to get in between us. And then I would help Lacey escape from prison, and we’d be together again. The three of us…the fun we’d have.”_

_His already tormented neck is throbbing, his ears ringing, and his lungs burning as they yearn for air. If Whitney had been effectively trained in hand-to-hand combat, she would know to put more pressure on the_ sides _of his neck, restricting the blood flow to his brain and causing him to pass out in seconds. Instead, she applies the most pressure at the front of his neck, cutting off his air, and so he is still conscious and battling hard to stay that way._

_More than likely, it isn’t lack of training that causes Whitney to do the things she does, the way she does them; it’s for the pure entertainment. She knows she has the time to waste, so she’s playing one last game with him._

_Greg lets one hand drop and he grasps at the sand around them until he feels what he’s looking for. He grips the shard of glass tightly in his hand, nearly brings it back to stab at her arm before realizing he could cut his own throat. Instead, he swings it up and back, over his own shoulder. He’s unable to get much momentum and it merely grazes Whitney’s shoulder. He thinks he did more damage to his own hand._

_Still, Whitney snarls angrily and the tension on his neck eases slightly. He is able to take in only a few partial breaths of sweet air as she grabs the back of his wrist and slams his hand into the ground until he’s forced to drop the glass. Too soon, she reapplies the unrelenting squeeze._

There’s no way I’ve come this far to die now.

_Not for the first time—or the last—Greg wishes to hear the voices that have both disturbed and comforted him for this past week. Scorpion-Nick, Kid-Greg. Even if all they do is mock him, that’s alright. He needs to hear anything but Whitney’s voice._

_But the voices don’t come. At least, not the ones he wants to hear._

_“This is why you were going to be the one, Greg.” She’s talking, again. “You’ve got this fight in you that I’ve honestly never witnessed before. Lacey and I would have had so much fun with you!”_

_His vision is blurring, flickering, and blackening around the edges, but Greg reaches and claws behind his back. She is now lying fully on his back, forcing his front flat against the desert sand. The shards of what remained of the window dig into his chest and stomach. Whitney’s own breaths are harsh as she continues her attack, and Greg can feel her blood dripping onto him._

_As her grip tightens impossibly further, Greg’s eyes widen and he is forced to abandon his ineffective attack on her. His hands move down to her arm, try to pull it away. His air is entirely cut off and he can’t get his fingers under her arm._

_He claws her skin, knowing he’s scratching himself as well since his movements are becoming increasingly uncoordinated. A humming sound slowly fills the night sky, and as it becomes deafening, Greg can see a beam of light travelling closer making its way around the area._

_‘Aliens,’ he thinks deliriously before his hands drop back to the sand and his world goes black._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done with this one! Please review! ☺


	24. A New Normal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, folks! The last chapter! I will be posting a short epilogue tomorrow, and this chapter is particularly long. Think of it as a gift for sticking with me as I took FOREVER with this story! As always, let me know what you think. The sequel is already in the works. ;)

**_ Chapter Twenty-Four: A New Normal _ **

As with many happenings in Las Vegas, Nevada, the search for Whitney Adams ended as quickly as it began. Leads arose, but each led only to a dead end. After all, a reward was offered in exchange for the information leading to her arrest, so people were bound to try. Although she was presumed dead from exposure to the elements, a judge would need to rule on that decision. Declaring a person legally dead was a tedious process that could take months or longer, so any pending charges against Adams were shelved for the duration.

Shelved as well were the samples collected from the warehouse, although the unknown males’ DNA had been entered into the database in case there was ever an opportunity to identify them. There was no way to tell whether the men who had been kept there before Greg were still alive, but their chances looked slim. Shelved were the paring knife, the ropes, the chains, the handcuffs, the carbon dioxide canister, and all of Whitney’s other instruments of torture found at the scene of the accident and the warehouse. Each item had been bagged, sealed, and initialed then tucked neatly into cardboard boxes. Overlooked and mostly forgotten, among them nestled one of the smallest items collected from the scene: a women’s watch.

Shortly after speaking with Sara, Nathan Phelps had traveled to Vegas seemingly of his own accord, and was suddenly very willing to help out the LVPD in any way he could. A persuasive, moderately threatening call from Captain Jim Brass may or may not have nudged the man onto the plane from New York City. Unfortunately, beyond what he’d disclosed to Sara, he didn’t have much to tell about the details of what he knew about Adams since serving her sentence.

Apparently, the woman had been living a reasonably ‘normal’ life in the city after her release from jail. There was no evidence of any crime committed outside Nevada since her release. In the city, she’d dutifully stayed in touch with her parole officer and even retained a full-time marketing position at a respected company. If it weren’t for her pseudonym-purchase of an abandoned warehouse across the country and her kidnapping and torture of a crime scene investigator, Whitney Adams was outwardly on the straight-and-narrow.

Brass kept his men on guard at Greg’s door as long as he could, but eventually he was forced to pull them. All signs pointed to both of the suspects being deceased; hence, no one to guard against. However, this didn’t keep Greg’s discretely armed co-workers from organizing their own shifts either at his door or keeping him company in his room. Very little time passed that he was not guarded.

The Sanders had finally arrived. They’d been delayed for weeks by travel restrictions at the borders of the African village in which they’d been working. By the time they made it, most of Greg’s exterior wounds had healed or were easy to hide—although you would never know it from his mom’s reaction. She’d already been weeping upon entry to the hospital, and full-on sobbing by the time they reached his room. She’d clung to him for so long and so tightly. As much as she was aggravating hidden injuries, he did not protest; just tucked his face into her shoulder, rubbed her back soothingly, and told her he was okay. Even his father, never one to show much affection, had teary, red eyes as he tousled the hair at the back of Greg’s head fondly.

The days and weeks crept by, and Greg thought that he would never be permitted to leave the hospital. His recovery was painstakingly slow, and he was restless from being still for so long. More than once he caught himself wishing he’d again been the victim of another lab explosion or gang beating because he would at least be free from the hospital by now. His independence was absent and his pride wounded, but Greg carried on fighting because he wanted more than anything to get back to the point of fending for himself.

The entire ordeal, but particularly the dehydration and the stress positions in which he’d spent so long tied, had taken a severe tole on Greg’s system. He would continue on dialysis for his kidneys, a twice-weekly procedure to help filter toxins from his blood, until his lab work came back satisfactory. This could mean a time period of weeks to months, even following his release from the hospital. These sessions weren’t as taxing on him as his physical therapy, but did cause him some nausea and lightheadedness. The feeling reminded him of how he felt when he was drugged by Whitney. During his first treatment, he was alone with the exception of the medical staff, and had been completely lost in his panic and delusion for at least an hour. Sara was with him for the second treatment. Greg learned very quickly that having someone that he knew and trusted present was a good thing…

_He bit his lower lip and closed his eyes while the nurse glided yet another catheter into his vein. His arms were essentially pincushions. Greg felt a small squeeze on his hand, and looked up to see Sara smiling at his side. He did his best to return the gesture._

_When Greg had asked her to stay with him that afternoon, it caught her off-guard. Normally during Greg’s procedures and tests, he would insist on Sara using that time to get herself some rest. ‘_ Of course, _’ was her answer with little hesitation, and she didn’t request an explanation from him because one wasn’t needed, even if she was curious._

_The nurse, whose name was Rosie, talked as she worked. Her actions were quick and efficient, her words friendly but matter-of-fact. She explained the function and the possible side effects of the dialysis mostly for Sara’s benefit since Greg had already been through this once before. After securing the catheter in place with clear medical tape, she attached it to a length of tubing. The tubing, a line normally used to deliver fluids to a patient, would instead act as a transport system for his own blood into the giant machine tucked against the wall next to Greg’s bed. Rosie pressed a few buttons, and they all watched as Greg’s blood filled the line and traveled into the machine which would filter toxins and other waste products from his bloodstream; a job that his kidneys should normally be doing._

_Once satisfied that the dialysis was running correctly, Rosie turned back to them with a polite smile. “I’ll check back in in twenty minutes or so. If you need anything at all, just press that red button.”_

_Sara thanked her. She knew well where that button was._

_Once the nurse left the room, Greg sighed and relaxed back against the pillows. Sara talked to him about happenings at the lab but she stuck to light topics and even gossip. Fifteen minutes into the treatment, she had so far managed to keep Greg distracted from the strange sensation of having a machine filter and return his blood to him. However, he hadn’t responded to her at all for a minute or two, and Sara looked closely to see that his face had gone pale and a thin coat of sweat covered his forehead._

_“You alright?” she prompted cautiously._

_“No,” he shook his head. “No, no, I feel—”_

_He began to desperately glance around the room, and she retrieved what she guessed he was looking for. As soon as he had the pan sitting in front of him, he threw up into it. Sara pressed the button to summon the nurse and placed a comforting hand on Greg’s back. She hovered nervously over him as he continued to vomit until there was nothing left in his stomach. Tears streamed down his face and he trembled violently. His breaths were labored and broken up by coughs._

_Rosie rushed in and listened to his chest with a stethoscope. She tucked the familiar tubes into his nostrils to supply extra oxygen then wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm and took a reading. Greg didn’t take notice of her as she worked. Eyes closed tightly, he only leaned forward and clutched the pan in his lap even though he seemed to be done being sick._

_“It’s low,” the nurse confirmed aloud, then turned to them and clarified: “Like I said, low blood pressure is unfortunately a known response to the dialysis. From reading your chart, Mr. Sanders, I suspected it might happen again this time, but hoped we could avoid it since you’ve had more time to heal. I’m going to increase the amount of fluids we’re giving you for a few minutes and get this under control. Once your blood pressure is back up, the nausea will go away.”_

_After adjusting a fluid pump attached to another catheter in Greg’s opposite arm, Rosie bustled about, checking Greg’s catheters and replacing the used pan with a new one. Sara had stepped back to give the nurse room to work, but now moved smoothly to his side once more. She reached to touch Greg’s shoulder lightly but no sooner had her fingers grazed his skin, he jumped unexpectedly high, flinging the empty pan to the side and sending it clattering to the floor deafeningly._

_“No, don’t.” His muttered plea hung in the air like a storm cloud as he clung onto the bed’s opposite railing. He swiped a hand across his face, brushing the sweat away and knocking the oxygen tubing free. For a moment Greg looked like he might drag himself over the railing to get away, and the nurse moved in quickly. Sara wordlessly caught her eye and held up her index finger in a ‘one moment’ gesture. Rosie studied the monitors showing Greg’s vitals for a moment then nodded tensely._

_Sara took a seat in the chair again—looked at him on his level instead of standing over him—and spoke carefully. “Greg? It’s just me.”_

_Her voice broke through some of the man’s confusion and he looked to her. In a matter of seconds his expression softened from that of a cornered animal, but he remained anchored to the railing. “Sara? How did…” His voice faded and he wheezed a few more breaths in and out._

_Sara leaned forward. “How did what?”_

_“I feel…” He looked around the room and didn’t even seem to notice the nurse anymore. “Amber?”_

_This last word was whispered under his breath, and Sara just made it out. Flashbacks and panic attacks were times that he used Whitney Adams’s alias, and sometimes she did hear him mutter it in his sleep. It made her fear what sort of things Whitney did to force him to call her that._

_Confident that Greg at least recognized her, if not where and when he was, Sara knew she could safely close the gap between them. Still moving slowly, she sat on the edge of the bed and placed an arm around his thin frame, careful to not interfere with the I.V.’s, monitors, and his injuries. “She’s not here, Greg. Just me and a nurse.”_

_He shuddered._

_“I promise.” She pulled him close and leaned her head against his. “It’s okay.”_

_Though he didn’t pull away, Greg’s breaths were ragged as he struggled to get enough air, so Sara carefully tucked the oxygen tubing back into place. She then wrapped her other arm around his front and gently unwound his fingers from the bed railing so that he didn’t hurt himself. He clung to her instead._

_As Sara comforted Greg, the nurse checked a few settings on the machines then slipped out of the room after another shared glance with her. Sara knew that she was likely going to fetch Dr. Holland._

_He was trembling, but gradually returned completely to reality. His grasp on her loosened and he sighed shakily. When he spoke, he sounded weak and ashamed. “When they drugged me, I would get nauseous. My vision doubled, the world spun, and I’d dry-heave for what felt like hours. It hurt so bad.”_

_“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she repeated, then turned her head away briefly to hide her grimace at the idea of getting sick with broken ribs and bruised kidneys._

_“How long will this last?” he asked quietly._

_“How long will what last?”_

_“When…when do I reach the point in this process where not everything reminds me of her?”_

_Sara studied his face and thought hard. The closest memory she had to reference was her encounter with Natalie Davis, and although it hadn’t lasted as long as Greg’s nightmare, it had its similarities and left its fair share of permanent scars in her mind. She wanted to comfort him, but also knew he wouldn’t believe her if she lied or sugar-coated anything._

_“I don’t know the answer to that,” she stated honestly. “But I do know that how you feel right now, it won’t last forever. There may be a few things that always make you think of her, but it will happen less and less, and you_ will _learn how to survive; how to thrive even.”_

After that incident, Greg was prescribed an as-needed antianxiety medication, as well as a rescue inhaler to use during his panic attacks. He was already taking plenty of once- or twice-daily supplements and painkillers, so Dr. Holland chose a medication that Greg had the option of using intermittently; such as prior to known triggers. The inhaler would help to relax his airway during attacks and flashbacks.

Sara spent as much time at the hospital with Greg as possible. Everyone else from the lab visited as well, but Nick and Sara were the most frequent fliers, and _she_ basically lived there. She cared for him and enjoyed his company, but she was also there for him during his physical therapy and dialysis because they were hard on him. At first, Greg was embarrassed, although he’d never asked her to leave. He lost his patience with himself more than once, and although the rational part of his mind argued, he worried that she would lose respect and eventually her feelings for him would fade.

However, quite the opposite happened. Throughout every exam, needle-poke, exercise, hiss or groan of pain, and flashback when Greg couldn’t quite catch his breath, Sara was only supportive and calm. Her demeanor in turn relaxed him, and occasionally he was able to imagine himself getting back to normal someday.

When she had to go back to work after her month off, Greg sometimes had to force her to go home and get some sleep once in a while. He enjoyed having Sara close, in fact he preferred it, but it was clear that she wasn’t getting enough rest. Besides, Greg was feeling stronger and somewhat more confident. Although he still had nightmares where Whitney Adams hovered over his bedside while he slept, it was getting easier for him to see her as everyone else did: dead.

Surgeons repaired the break in Greg’s right arm, although it would be weeks until it was out of the sling and he could begin working on the stiff shoulder muscles that had been damaged when it was dislocated. On the bright side, he would likely come out of the whole thing ambidextrous since he was using his left arm for nearly everything in the meantime. Also, the surgical team was able to remove the tracheal stent at the same time.

His right tibia and left knee required a total of three surgeries, each about a week apart. Approximately five weeks after he was rescued, Greg was allowed to start walking again. His muscles had atrophied from the days of starvation and the weeks of confinement to a bed. He lost over twenty-five pounds since he was kidnapped, and he had been a healthy weight before the incident so most was muscle loss. Building his body back up to what it had been was challenging and frustrating. However, he needed to move around and his mind needed the distraction, so within days he was getting around quite easily on crutches.

Dr. Holland was impressed with his patient’s progress, but still insisted that Greg see a psychiatrist every few days while he was hospitalized. These visits would also be required if he was ever to return to the crime lab, so he swallowed his pride and went along with it. He was no stranger to therapists and knew they had their benefits.

The physical pain, like the emotional scarring, never fully went away. The stronger medicines dulled it, but he had gradually been weaned off the opioids to help avoid addiction. The non-steroidal anti-inflammatories did very little for the pain, even at high doses. No, the pain didn’t go away, but Greg was learning to accept it as part of his new normal and could mostly ignore it.

A week after his last surgery, and following a total of seven weeks in the hospital, Greg was allowed to be discharged, but only if he could stay with someone for a couple of weeks to help him get back on his feet. Sara, Nick, and Catherine were present when Greg was given the news about his pending discharge. They all kept straight faces until the doctor left the room, then the visitors had whooped and hollered, jumping up and down in excitement. Even Greg hadn’t been able to rid his face of a happy grin for hours. This was what he wanted, what he _needed_ , what he worked so hard for. However, the question remained: Who would he stay with?

Greg’s father had only been able to stay in Vegas a week but his mother insisted on hanging around until Greg was better. Now that her son was for the most part in the clear, she too had responsibilities to return to and had tried to convince him to come back to California for his recovery. He promised he would visit soon, but there was no way he would consider staying with his family long-term. Greg knew that his mother would try to get him to move back permanently. As much as he loved his parents, his relationship with them was one that was strongest with distance between them. His mom worried more when he was in sight—his father confirmed this—and it was this worry, and the guilt it carried that kept Greg away from California. That, and the fact that his life, his world was in Vegas now: career, friends, and of course Sara.

Nick was hosting for two of his siblings in his own house, otherwise he would have offered. So, Sara invited Greg to stay at her place. It only made sense to keep Greg in a safe place while Whitney was theoretically still on the loose, and Sara’s apartment was in a busier part of town; nearer to the police station and crime lab. She had a spare bedroom, and her neighbors were just nosy enough to scare off any would-be criminal. Greg agreed, and although he was excited for some additional freedom, he was nervous about depending on Sara and worried to inconvenience her.

* * *

“Well, it’s not much, but make yourself at home.”

Greg’s eyes followed Sara’s hand as she gestured around her apartment. Of course he’d been here before, but since then she had obviously rearranged and done some major cleaning.

“What’s the occasion?” he asked with a subtle wink.

She laughed. “Hey, I clean. I don’t need an occasion.”

He mouthed ‘ _oh, okay_ ’ sarcastically, then grinned and slowly made his way to the overstuffed couch, which seemed to be beckoning. After leaning his crutches against the coffee table, Greg sat back against the cushions. The activity of his release from the hospital and traveling to Sara’s apartment had been challenging. His body ached all over, but he tried hard to hide how much discomfort he was in.

Sara set his bags in the spare room, which was filled with things retrieved from Greg’s place, then joined him in the living room. She thought he was asleep at first, but his shallow breaths proved he was still awake and winded. Sidling up close to him on the couch, she laid a hand on his chest: a gentle reminder to slow his breathing.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered to him. The words felt and sounded loaded because she meant them in multiple ways. She was happy to host him at her place, but also knew that events could have very easily ended up differently, with Greg absent from all of their lives.

“So am I,” he breathed.

A half-hour later, Greg had dozed off and was gradually leaning against Sara’s shoulder more and more. She’d tried to talk him into laying down in the bedroom, but he had refused, saying he’d spent enough time in a bed lately. Now, after another small shift, Sara chuckled softly and adjusted herself so that she could guide his upper body onto her lap. He went easily and nestled his head against her thighs.

Sara turned the television’s volume down low and rested comfortably back against the cushions, one hand instinctively traveling to Greg’s head to run her fingers through his hair. She had nearly drifted off when his voice surprised her.

“I heard things.”

Her hand paused in its traced path on his hair. Was he talking in his sleep? She felt like she missed something. “What do you mean?”

“In the warehouse. I saw things, too, but mostly I heard things.”

She was taken aback by his sudden desire to talk about the ordeal, and worried that she might say the wrong thing in response. Sara wanted Greg to be able to confide in her, and for that reason she had never read his statement or sought out any details from those that did. She still knew only a small amount of what happened to him during that week. Some details had come out while discussing the case with her coworkers, but Sara always wanted it to be Greg’s choice what he chose to share with her. She didn’t want to disrupt his train of thought, so instead of saying anything, she continued stroking his hair and moved her other hand in slow, gentle circles on his upper back.

“My Papa Olaf’s voice, Nick’s, yours. Nick…Nick helped me out a lot, you know, with the pep talks.”

She smiled and stared past the television.

“His voice also seemed to uh, correspond with the scorpion I kept seeing. The yellow scorpion. The one that…” he trailed off momentarily before continuing. “You. Sara, your voice was so comforting, and you always knew just what to say. I guess since I was hallucinating, that was _me_ saying the right things, but it wasn’t unlike how you are in real life.”

She wanted to disagree with him; remind him that she hadn’t always been the most calming presence or the greatest of friends. But Greg wasn’t done.

“She knew how to get to me, knew my weaknesses. Her games were inhuman, and the way that she talked to me…I was less than an animal to her. She couldn’t get enough, and she was using me up. When she got bored, that’s when she talked about you.” Greg sniffed, and his next words left his lips in a whisper. “She wanted me to beg.”

Sara cringed. The emotion in his trembling voice triggered a sharp pang in her chest.

“She wanted me to beg her not to take you or hurt you, and I did. But she still…I’m so sorry, Sara. Why did I think that would work?”

“Oh, Greg.” She couldn’t be silent anymore. Greg’s tears soaked through her pant leg, and she leaned over to kiss his cheek and mumbled into his neck, “You saved me, remember? If anything, _I_ should be sorry. But we’ve already gone over that.”

They both laughed lightly through tears.

“We can keep going in circles and blaming ourselves,” she added. “And knowing us, we will. But I’m going to tell you over and over that you have no reason to apologize.”

Greg nodded against her lap.

After a few moments of quiet, Sara decided to ask him a question she had been wondering since he told her about his auditory hallucinations. “So, Nick was the scorpion?”

“Mm-hmm,” he nodded once more and sounded half-asleep.

“Was I…anything?”

“The light,” he muttered drowsily.

Sara sat speechless, wondered if she’d heard him correctly. What did that mean?

But he had dozed off again.

They spent the rest of the day on the couch. She played movies and television shows that were light and comedic, even though Greg slept through most of it. She was able to convince him to eat a small dinner, and by the time Sara had to head into work, Greg was so exhausted that he could barely support his own weight. The activity of the day had completely worn him out. She hated to leave him now but knew that he had everything in the spare room he could need, even if he couldn’t move around very well.

She made him promise to call if anything happened, then helped him into his new bedroom and deposited him onto the bed. He was too tired to even object when Sara tucked him in. She quietly took her leave after seeing he’d fallen asleep.

* * *

Greg gasped awake, hurling himself upright in bed then immediately regretting the action as every muscle and bone protested painfully. The covers were tangled around his legs like bindings. He collapsed back onto the pillows and sluggishly kicked the sweaty sheets away. Memories of the vivid nightmare gradually faded in intensity, and Greg lay on his back, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath.

Dawn had broken, and grey light penetrated the thin drapes covering the room’s windows. The light didn’t bother him—he was accustomed to sleeping in the daytime. In fact, he could normally sleep anywhere, any time of day. Before working grueling graveyard shifts at the Las Vegas Crime Lab, Greg had spent time employed in both day and night shifts in his jobs, along with his schooling, and his body learned to accept sleep readily and gratefully when and where it was presented. He’d slept a ton in the hospital thanks to fatigue and good drugs, but had mostly been forced to a diurnal schedule there. In a few weeks, he would hopefully be allowed to return to work at some capacity, which meant he needed to work on his sleep schedule again.

Lately, what inevitably interrupted his rest were the dreams. Whitney’s presence in them was guaranteed, and air was never a luxury afforded to him. He would fight for oxygen, fight for his life, but he never got relief from her games. He’d only awaken when the panic became overwhelming, and it took so long to recover that he was normally wide awake by the time his mind was somewhat calm.

Sometimes, the imagery in his dreams was verified as fact by corresponding scars on his body. Most of the time though, it was impossible to tell the difference between an unveiled memory and a piece of fiction that his creative imagination designed to break him down.

His breathing finally slowed, and Greg looked to his side to see that Sara had left a couple bottles of water on the bedside table, along with his medications and a granola bar. She had also leaned his crutches within reach. He smiled, grateful for her thoughtfulness. He barely remembered moving from the living room to the bedroom last night, but knew he hadn’t slept all the way to dawn. The nightmares had jolted him awake more than once.

According to the digital clock, it was 5:32 a.m. and Sara wouldn’t be home for another hour—that was if she didn’t get stuck working overtime. Greg used his crutches to make a trip to the bathroom, then drank some water before laying back down stiffly and draping the sheet over his body. He missed Sara but refused to call or text because he didn’t want to bother her over something that wasn’t an emergency. He pulled the sheet up past his head, forced his eyelids shut, stared at the inside of them, and tried to rest.

* * *

It was after 7:00 a.m. when Sara arrived home from her shift. She hadn’t heard anything from Greg all night, and had to keep herself from calling to check on him. The last thing she wanted was to smother him with worry. She checked on him silently then worked on preparing a light breakfast for the two. Ever since his week of starvation Greg’s stomach was especially sensitive and he was prone to nausea if he consumed the wrong thing. Convincing him to eat could be difficult at times; the poor guy got sick of being sick and often tried to avoid food in order to avoid feeling nauseous. Dr. Holland had made it clear that it would take time and patience to get him back on a regular diet, and even then some of the effects of the torment on his digestive system _could_ become long-term.

Carrying the plate of mixed fruit with yogurt, crepes, and strawberry syrup, Sara rapped her knuckles lightly on the door to the spare bedroom. There was no response, and she opened it slowly. “Greg?”

He was completely covered by the sheet, and only the outline of his body curled beneath the blue linen alerted Sara to his presence. The comforter had been crumpled and pushed to the foot of the bed.

“Greg?” she repeated softly, cautiously approaching the bed. She didn’t want to startle him or interrupt his sleep, but he needed to eat.

A small groan emerged from under the sheet.

“I have breakfast.”

His shape shifted very slightly. “And coffee?”

Sara smirked. “You know Dr. Holland said ‘no coffee’ for now. Too harsh on your stomach. Sorry.”

Another, more dramatic groan.

“Come on, Greg. At least try to eat a little.”

“Too comfy.”

She smiled again. “It’s comfy out here, too.”

There was a pause, then: “Join me?”

Sara hesitated. Since their conversation on the first day of Greg’s statement, the subject of ‘them’ hadn’t exactly come up again. It wasn’t even discussed after she’d asked him to move in with her for his recovery. She knew he needed time to process everything he went through, and was willing to wait as long as she needed.

Even if nothing was gained from this except for a closer bond with a good friend, she would be okay with that.

Grissom and Sara had finalized their divorce over three weeks ago, and although she and Grissom hadn’t been close for the last part of their relationship, Sara was in no rush to jump back into anything too soon.

Nevertheless, the soft, warm sheets after a long shift, and the thought of being so close to Greg was tempting. She sighed, setting the plate onto the nightstand. “Only if you promise to try to eat.”

“Deal,” he approved without pause.

Sara slid into the bed, facing Greg but giving him plenty of space. She ducked under the sheet to see what all the fuss was about. The morning lighting in the room filtered through the sheet and she could easily see him in the azure glow when he turned to her. He wore sweatpants but no shirt, and huddled nearly into a fetal position as he watched her groggily with his brown eyes.

She smiled warmly at him. “Hi.”

The corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Hey.” Dark half-moons framed the man’s heavy eyelids. He clearly hadn’t slept well, if at all.

“Dreams?” she prompted.

He shrugged. Sara noted the slight wince he gave at the movement. She wondered how much pain he still felt.

“Don’t,” Greg scolded lightly. He must have noticed the concern in her features.

Sara huffed. “Don’t what?” she asked, playing dumb.

“Stop worrying. Please, could you just…lay here with me for a few minutes?”

“Okay,” she agreed, placing a hand palm up onto the bare space on the mattress between them. After a small hesitation, he laid his own hand onto hers. She stroked his palm lightly with her thumb and he sighed.

She edged closer—close enough for their foreheads to touch lightly together. Greg’s fingers traveled lightly from her palm to her arm, then ghosted up her arm to her shoulder and finally around her back to pull her to him. 

There was no empty space between them; not anymore. Sara tucked her face into the curve between his shoulder and his neck, minding old injuries but breathing in his scent and closing her eyes, smiling. Minutes ago she’d thought to herself that she was in no rush to jump back into anything relationship-wise, and as Greg’s hand reached her hair and his fingers wound through it, she found herself nearly laughing at her current position.

She pulled back and Greg withdrew his hand hastily. Their eyes met; Sara’s expression one of uncertainty, Greg’s of deep-seated longing. He opened his mouth to speak but Sara cut him off by swiftly and urgently leaning in and pressing her lips against his. He froze at first, eyes still open and shocked over what seemed to be happening. Was he dreaming? But this was too good to be one of his dreams—especially since that week with Whitney and Harris. Finally he relaxed into the kiss and his eyes closed.

His hand returned to her hair, more firmly this time, and Sara allowed her own hands to cup his face then lightly explore his chest and shoulders. She reveled in the feeling of his bare skin under her palms, and any doubts dissipated as quickly as the feeling of calm, of _right_ encompassed her entirely for the first time in months.

* * *

_Three months later_

It was nearly five in the morning, and D.B. sent Greg home early instead of allowing him to process the evidence he’d collected at his scene with Catherine. Greg objected, but not with vigor. He’d been called in an hour early the previous evening, and was exhausted after the seven hours they took to process the immense scene. He’d already been back at work for two months; the first six weeks he spent stuck in the DNA lab feeling like a grounded child, the last two finally allowed back out in the field, but he wasn’t feeling any more competent than his first night back.

Greg supposed he must be getting better because everybody told him he was, but he still couldn’t work the hours he had before. His doctor said he was healing normally and just needed more time. If Greg was going to get back into the swing of things successfully, he was going to have to take it slow. Unfortunately, this meant that nearly every time he was forced from the lab and told to go home his teammates were still hard at work. Not that anyone acted bitter towards him; in fact, they all coddled him and his patience was beginning to grow thin.

 _Except for Sara._ She _can coddle me anytime, anyplace._

This morning, Grissom had met him just outside the crime lab. Greg was beginning to think his old and new bosses may have been worked together to organize this. Whatever _this_ was.

He watched lights decorating the city streets drift by outside the passenger window and wondered if he was in danger. Not that he thought Grissom would let anything happen to him, but he was given no explanation of where they were going and his imagination ran amuck. “Today’s supposed to be a scorcher, from what I hear.” His voice was a bit higher than usual as he tried to make small-talk to distract himself from the sense of impending doom.

Grissom only grunted in response. He never was one for small talk.

_That, and why waste words on somebody you’re about to kill?_

Greg was thankfully distracted from his morbid thoughts when Grissom parked the company SUV near the entrance to the New York-New York Hotel & Casino.

“What—Is this a scene?” Greg questioned hopefully. Grissom had parked in a loading zone, which hinted to Greg that perhaps they were there on official business.

Grissom only shook his head and exited the vehicle, apparently expecting Greg to follow. Which he did, but not before sighing loudly.

“Why are we here? This part isn’t even open,” Greg pointed out, lagging a few yards behind Grissom as the two rounded the front of the hotel and approached a small entry gate that appeared to lead into the outdoor area behind the hotel.

Lights glimmered their reflection against the surface of the key that Grissom held up for him to see. “For us, it is.”

Greg’s mouth fell open and his eyes searched the surroundings as if looking for a way to deal with this situation. This part of Las Vegas was never deserted, but 5:00 a.m. on a weekday was about as close as it got. The two men were now out of sight of the traffic on the main road, and no tourists occupied this area of the hotel’s property.

_No witnesses._

Greg gestured to the sign on the door: _Employees Only_. “But that says—” His comment was cut off when Grissom turned the key, unlatching the door and turning to Greg with eyebrows raised.

Confused into silence, something that didn’t happen to him often, he merely followed. They passed a couple of maintenance workers, who paid them no attention, and made their way through some covered corridors then back out into the open. Above them towered the Big Apple Roller Coaster, dark and abandoned at this time of the morning.

Grissom led them through the gate leading to the ride’s entrance, then up the steps to the coaster itself. A security guard sat at the controls, reading a magazine. He glanced up, saw Grissom, and held out two fingers lazily, as if holding an invisible cigarette. Greg watched almost dazedly as Grissom slipped a few folded bills between them. He followed once more, taking a seat next to the other man at the very front of the ride.

“Is he qualified to run this thing?” Greg asked worriedly about the guard.

Silence from Grissom. Just a small smirk.

“I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to be riding roller coasters yet,” Greg tried again, jumping slightly when the safety bars dropped into position. Grissom didn’t respond, and the coaster began to clank and rattle its way towards the top of the slope.

It was true that Greg thought Dr. Holland wouldn’t approve, but he knew he was healed enough. The truth was, he hadn’t been on a roller coaster in years. After spending so much time as a Crime Scene Investigator, he had mostly lost the urge to seek thrills. He stared at the top, eyes wide, and realized that none of his younger self remained; the freckled, recklessly boisterous kid that would ride roller coasters all day without batting an eye. Greg was terrified, and longed to be at home. Or at the very least, safely at ground level.

“We have to put up with a lot in our job,” Grissom began next to him, seemingly out of the blue. These were the first words spoken by him since requesting Greg join him for a ‘quick ride’, outside of the lab. “And you, Greg, you’ve been through more than enough.”

Greg looked over, saying nothing. He was tired, a bit scared, and wondering more than ever what the point of this trip was.

“Want to know how many times I almost walked away from the job?” Grissom prompted.

“Not really. And you _did_ walk away.”

The older man narrowed his eyes warningly. “I retired.”

“You _left_. We needed you, and you left,” Greg pointed out, raising his voice and finding that he didn’t even try to stop the words or at least filter them.

Grissom nodded. “Yes, I did. And I apologize for how that happened. The timing, and the distance…but it needed to happen.” He faced forward before adding, “And _you_ stole my wife.”

Greg’s mouth hung wide open. What could he say to that?

“I’m only saying these things, Greg, because I sense that you’re frustrated. The point I’m trying to make is that I don’t want you to give up, because you’re a fantastic investigator. You have made, and have yet to make, a substantial difference in countless good peoples’ lives by giving them peace of mind.”

“Thanks,” Greg said, but he was still unsure why they were here of all places.

After another moment, Grissom’s stern face became more relaxed. “You have to find a way to let it go, Greg.”

“Wh-what are—” Greg stuttered, flabbergasted. “Let _what_ go?”

A casual shrug, then: “Everything. Not forever. But give yourself a break here and there.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

Another smirk and a pointed nod to their front was his only answer. Greg turned his eyes forward once more and realized they had reached the crest of the hill. It leveled out briefly before tilting downward. From this angle it appeared less like a hill and more like a ninety-degree drop. He braced his legs and clung to the bar in front of him as if his life depended on it. He heard Grissom laugh, and wondered briefly what was so funny before the falling sensation took over and Greg found it impossible to worry about anything at all.

If only for a short while, he let it all go.


	25. Epilogue

“You could have prevented this.”

Whitney Adam’s voice was clear as day, and Sara’s eyes sprung open. It was somehow dark once more, although it had been dawn when she laid down and she didn’t believe she slept that long. The bedroom was pitch black, and the only source of light filtered from the cracked doorway of the bathroom. Steam billowed through, and the water could be heard running. Somewhere, a watch steadily ticked away the seconds.

“You had every chance to save him.”

Sara made her way to the bathroom door, stepping softly. She didn’t want to face what might greet her on the other side.

“You ran away, and _he_ paid the price.”

She carefully swung the door inward and stopped, at first unable to make out anything through the thick steam. Gradually it dissipated, and she tried to scream at the sight before her but no sound left her mouth.

This wasn’t her master bathroom, but she recognized it. She’d seen it once in person and several times in the crime scene photos. The warehouse bathroom.

Whitney Adams was leaning over the bathtub; one arm submerged in water up to the elbow. The tub was completely full, but the faucet still gushed. Water so hot it boiled splashed over the sides as something thrashed at the bottom.

The now-blonde turned to Sara and beamed. “Wait, did I say ‘paid’? I meant to say he’s _still_ paying the price.”

Sara wanted to run over but found herself incapable of exceeding a snail’s pace. As she neared Whitney, she could better make out the shape under the surface and froze.

Greg was held down, Whitney’s hand pressing unrelenting against his chest. He grasped at Whitney’s hand, her arm, her face, trying to fight his way to the top. Precious air bubbles rose from his mouth and nose as he formed inaudible cries for help. He locked eyes with Sara, silently begging for her help, but all she could do was look on.

The second hand of the invisible clock had become thunderous and nearly deafening, as if it now belonged to a giant clock tower. The running water also rose in volume and might as well have been a waterfall.

Greg’s struggles weakened then gradually ceased altogether. His eyes were unblinking, seemingly condemning Sara even in death. Whitney giggled and withdrew her hand. Greg’s body didn’t float to the surface as it should have, but remained motionless and anchored at the bottom.

The clock stopped ticking.

The faucet became silent.

Then his mouth opened and the one word he shouted was not muffled by the water.

_“RUN!”_

Sara awoke abruptly, sitting straight up and looking wildly around the bedroom. Her sweat had dampened the sheets around her and nearly soaked her nightshirt. She noticed that it was still daytime, which meant she was longer trapped in her nightmare, forced to watch as Greg was drowned but unable to help him. She was safe. Greg was safe.

_Greg._

She felt the sudden urge to look at him, to touch him, so she turned to her left side, eyes scanning over the empty mattress next to her: Greg’s side of the bed. The two had officially shared an apartment for nearly two months now. Unofficially, they hadn’t lived apart since his release from the hospital six months ago, but they stayed at Sara’s place until Greg’s lease was up, then rented a new apartment close to the lab. The slight change of scenery had been good for both of them and their relationship was stronger than ever.

Her ears finally picked up the shower running in the bathroom and noted the door was cracked open with some steam escaping through the narrow space. She threw the blankets off, reached for her nightstand and the revolver within it, and prepared to dash in. This time, she would save him. “ _Greg!_ ”

“Sara? Everything okay?” Greg called over the water, his tone quite casual.

Sara shook her head and let out a deep breath. He was simply taking a shower. Whitney Adams wasn’t in there with him, and he wasn’t in any danger.

“Nothing,” she responded, loud enough for him to hear. “I just…nothing. Enjoy your shower.” Sara swung her legs over the side of the bed and wiped the sweat from her face with trembling hands. She was still in this position when the shower shut off and Greg emerged a few minutes later wearing only his boxers and rubbing a towel over his head.

His eyes landed on her, and he tossed the towel into the laundry hamper and crawled across the bed so he was just behind her. He wound his arms around the front of her shoulders and kissed a trail up the side of her neck. “Good morning,” he mumbled between kisses.

She sighed and leaned her head to the side. “It’s five in the afternoon.”

“Well yeah. That’s our morning.” Sensing her lingering anxiety, Greg shifted so that he was sitting next to her, their hips and arms touching. His still-damp skin felt cool against hers as he placed a hand on her thigh.

She looked to Greg and watched him as he stared at the floor. The bruises and scrapes from his week of hell had vanished. The cuts, stabs, and some of the bindings left scars that remained, now a dark purplish-red. Hopefully, their pigment would lighten and they would become nearly invisible with time. There was a long line down the inside of his right arm where pins and a plate had been inserted to hold the break steady, then removed when the bone healed. The scars from his knee surgeries were barely noticeable, but he still walked with a limp on his right leg. It was so slight that only those who knew Greg the most knew it was there.

The mark that troubled Sara the most was located on his neck: the long cut from the knife that had come frighteningly close to vital veins and arteries. It reminded her how easily Greg could have been taken; how close his life had come to being snuffed out like a candle that was only just lit. This wound had taken the longest to heal, and from time to time it still became inflamed and bothered him. He described it as an itch too deep to scratch, and Sara often caught him scratching it—usually when something was worrying him.

Greg glanced over after a moment and grinned nervously, feeling scrutinized. “What?”

“Nothing.” Sara rested her forehead on his shoulder. The nightmare had left her feeling insecure, apprehensive, and a bit paranoid. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of Greg’s body wash, shampoo, and underneath all that the scent of him. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” she finally mumbled against him.

Greg immediately straightened. “You mean…us?” he asked cautiously.

“No! Not us, I’m sorry. I mean this job. It wears me down, and I wonder if I could be happier doing something else—somewhere else. I’ve tried to leave, but I just keep getting drawn back in.”

Greg nodded slowly, then planted a kiss on the top of her head before turning back to his feet and the carpet. He had sensed that a conversation like this might be coming. He could tell that the job was beginning to overwhelm her again. She also wasn’t sleeping well, and he knew she worried about him. “It’s because you’re amazing at it, Sara.”

“If I’m such an amazing CSI, why do the bad guys keep winning? Either they hurt me, hurt the people I love…The memories, the paranoia of what might be coming next makes sleep impossible. Shouldn’t I run while I can? Find a safer way to make a living?”

“Hey,” he reached over and touched her cheek. “Maybe it’s because I’m psychic, or maybe _I’m_ not ready to leave this job so I don’t want you to either, but I really do believe you are meant to do this. You’ve helped so many people, Sara, and you can still help so many more.” Greg realized he was giving Sara the same pep-talk that Grissom had given him, and paused. Then he shrugged, putting on his best ‘aloof’ façade. “If you feel you need to run, then you should, I guess. In the end hopefully you’re happy with the choices you’ve made.”

She smirked at him, “I’m at least happy with _some_ of the choices I’ve made.”

He gave her a crooked grin then kissed her, his mouth lingering on hers. When they parted, his eyes were sweltering. She leaned back in swiftly and their mouths met again, urgently. He laid back on the bed, pulling her with him.

Sara began to nibble his earlobe and Greg sighed as goosebumps arose on his flesh. “Just promise me one thing,” he mumbled, eyes closed and enjoying her touch.

“What’s that?” Sara asked, only pausing momentarily in her exploration of Greg’s skin. She started to move her mouth downward, being much gentler with the tender skin of his neck than she was with his ear. She reached his collarbone, and Greg moaned quietly before continuing: “If you run, take me with you?”

Her head lifted and she met his eyes. “I won’t run away without you. I promise.”

He smiled. Her head dipped down again, and her lips found his chest, his stomach, his navel, the edge of his boxers. Sara paid special attention to each scar she encountered on the way.

A soft chuckle forced her to pause again. “What?”

“If somebody had told me a year ago that Sara-freaking-Sidle would be about to—”

“Stop talking, Greg.”

“Okay.”

He pushed all negative thoughts from his mind. Everything would be alright. Although scar tissue will remain, both the mind and body heal with time. He would learn to thrive again, and having his best friend along for the ride could only help.

* * *

Beyond both Sara and Greg’s view, across the street and inside another apartment, a pair of binoculars observed the show through thin drapes. Strands of red hair blew in the warm, gentle breeze entering the open window. The binoculars lowered and a sudden animalistic scream of hatred rung out. The occupants of two neighboring apartments called 9-1-1, believing someone was being attacked.

The police arrived within minutes to check on the tenant of apartment 405. She saw a mouse and had screamed. She blushed and apologized for worrying anyone. This explanation, along with her petite, feminine figure and flirty green eyes satisfied the responding officers and they left without filing a report.

Carrie Bell, formerly Amber Lewis and originally Whitney Adams, returned to her window and returned the binoculars to her eyes. The lights were turned off in the room she had been observing. She smiled faintly and reminded herself to be patient. The time for revenge would come, and she licked her lips at the idea of how sweet it would taste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it was! Can I just say how freaking proud I am of myself that I actually finished a story?! Go me! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it (although writing it was quite painful at times-I blame life and writer's block). As I've said, a sequel is in the works. Would you like a preview? If yes, let me know in a review!


	26. Coming soon...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Goes Without Saying’ by gregszandles (Part II of the ‘Just Getting Started’ series)
> 
> …In which a mandatory vacation allows Sara to meet Greg’s cousin Jerker in Smedjebacken, Greg loses his mind, and we learn that bears are not naturally nocturnal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I promised a preview of the next fic in this series so here’s not one, but TWO samples (finally)! My normal laptop broke down, but I’ve been working on it in a notebook. I want to get it nearly complete before I start posting so that readers don’t have to wait so long for updates.
> 
> *I’m currently using an old computer of mine that has Ubuntu installed, and I just can’t get decent quality when I try to make GIFs. I miss PS! So for those of you that also follow me on Tumblr, I promise I haven’t given up on my Greg/Eric GIFsets, I just don’t currently have the ability to create them.

**Coming soon…**

Cursing himself for being so absentminded, Greg walked back to the apartment then froze with his hand hovering over the doorknob. He’d locked it because Sara was in the shower. His key was likely dangling right by the mailbox key inside of the apartment. This day needed a reset button. Greg knocked, hoping that Sara was out of the shower and could hear him.

The door opened, but only as far as the chain allowed. An elderly black woman eyed him warily through the crack.

“Oh, I’m so—” Greg glanced up at the brass apartment numbers that labeled the door. 18. That was his number. _Unless_ … “I’m on the wrong floor. I’m so sorry, Ma’am.” He spun and retreated toward the stairway, hanging his head and blushing furiously. He hoped he never ran into that woman again. When he was back in the enclosed stairway something made him look at the inside of the door, which was labeled at each floor with that floor’s number. According to the number, this was the 14th floor.

_That’s my floor._

Unless someone was switching numbers around, that should have been his apartment.

He looked up the stairs, then down. Opened the door, closed it again. Finally, Greg cautiously retraced the route to his apartment door, seeing that it was the same as it always was—including a couple of minutes ago. It would be an impressive task to mess up; it was a straight shot down the hallway from the stairs. His fist paused above the door’s surface, poised to knock, but his nerves forced him to lower it once more.

Greg didn’t want to bother that woman again.

_But this is_ my _place._

_That poor old lady you just about gave a heart attack to would say otherwise._

“Okay, okay,” he whispered to himself, holding his head in his hands. “Pull yourself together.”

“Greg? Are you alright?”

He had been so entangled in his internal conflict that he didn’t hear the door open. Sara now stood in front of him, just outside the entrance-way to their apartment. Where just a few minutes ago an old lady stood wondering why the hell he was knocking on her door.

_**Two weeks later…** _

Sitting up then resting carefully onto her backside, Sara removed the backpack from her shoulders and opened it. Neither of the cellphones had a signal, and she swore. She looked around at the wilderness and estimated that she and Greg were maybe a ten-minute walk from camp. That was, if either of them felt up to walking anytime soon. Because Sara’s leg was clearly broken and Greg was still unconscious.

At least they should have plenty of daylight left.

_To do what, exactly? To contemplate exactly how screwed we are?_

Because at this point they both needed medical attention. Without a cellular signal, their best chance would be to head back to the rental car, which would be another two-hour hike.

Sara was having a hard time remembering why she ever enjoyed camping.


End file.
